Alex
Page 30
That is, until tonight, when I spent half an hour teaching Sutton about the game. Now, all of a sudden, I’m excited about her coming to watch me practice. I know she’ll have a gazillion questions afterward, and it will be my pleasure to show her all about my sport.
I don’t know what it is about Sutton that sets her apart. Maybe it’s the way she refused to judge me when I first met her in her office. Or maybe it’s the way she lives her life with such zest. It could possibly even be the fact that the girl is smokin’ hot and I’m seriously attracted to her.
Whatever the reasons, I like Sutton Price. I like her a lot and for probably a million other reasons. I probably like her most for the fact that she is getting me to reevaluate the way I look at things.
I close my eyes as a smile lingers on my face, and drift off to sleep.
Chapter 10
Sutton
Interestingly enough, I actually needed a ticket to get into the Cold Fury’s Sunday practice session and Alex had sent one over to the office for me. Not all of the practices are closed. When they practice at the actual Cold Fury arena, those are usually open to the public. But when they practice in this small, private facility, they let in people only by invitation, and so I needed a ticket. Had we not planned on working after, I would have asked for an extra ticket for Glenn, but I’m hoping I can get one for him another time.
Alex also sent me an email with directions to the practice rink. He added a note that said, “Pay attention to our drills. I’ll quiz you after.”
I had to smile at that because I had so much fun talking to him on the phone the other night, listening to his patient voice as he taught me all about the various penalties. He never got frustrated when I broke in with a question, and I swear, even the tone of his voice was the most carefree and light that I had heard since I met him. He told me once that he hated the game of hockey, but you couldn’t tell by our conversation that night.
Shelley called me this morning, and I had to listen to her gripe for ten minutes over the fact that her husband, Sean, won’t pick up his underwear off the floor. Sean is in his first year of medical school at the University of Pittsburgh, and Shelley is completing her master’s in speech pathology. They’re both super busy and I suggested to her that perhaps she should just let that slide, because in the grand scheme of things it’s probably not that big a deal.
Then we lapsed into an hour-long conversation about Alex. We both sat with our laptops opened and Googled him relentlessly. Shelley spent time ogling his pictures and I spent time reading tidbits to her from articles. It seems he did, indeed, have a reputation for being quite a prick not only to other players, but to Cold Fury fans as well. Apparently, the only reason it was forgivable was because he’s so damn good at what he does.
I couldn’t find any information about his personal life, though. There were no mentions of his parents or other family members. There were no celebrity pictures of him with hot women on his arm. Nothing. The only thing that was apparently newsworthy about Alex was the fact he is a phenomenal player.
Not completely weird, but it certainly painted him as something I already understood: He’s a loner.
Once I get inside the complex, I immediately notice that none of the players are on the ice yet. The ticket just got me in the door and there is no assigned seating. The building isn’t much more than a huge hockey rink with about ten rows of seating that slant upward from the glass that surrounds the ice. I walk over to an area filled with what I’m thinking are family members as it’s heavy on women and kids, all wearing regular street clothes. The next section over seems to be more for fans, as they are decked out in Cold Fury jerseys and other franchise clothing.
Taking an empty seat in the front row, I pull out my iPhone and idly thumb through my emails from work. I check in on Facebook and post a message that says, Watching a Cold Fury practice session. Yay, me!
I check my text messages and see one from Brandon. We’ve had some friendly banter back and forth through texts and Facebook. I think he’s making a genuine effort to start out as friends with me, understanding I’m just not ready to look at anything more with him right now.
His texts are funny, sometimes sweet, but once in a while, he’ll say something that might feel a little pressurizing. Like right now.
Missing you today. Any chance of dinner again?
See…that steps outside the bounds of friendship and I wonder if I should say something to him—to nip this in the bud.
“You know you can’t take pictures while you’re in here,” a voice causes me to look up and forget all about texting Brandon back.
A beautiful woman stands there, looking down at me with haughty eyes. She has white-blond hair that comes down in a straight, silky curtain past her shoulders. She has on a pink fuzzy sweater that seems to be painted onto her and tight black jeans. Another woman who looks almost exactly like her stands just behind, peering at me.
“Oh, I’m not taking pictures. Just texting,” I tell her apologetically, although I’m not sure why. I don’t think she’s part of the arena police.
She doesn’t respond but pushes her way into the aisle that I’m in, and I hastily turn my legs to the side so she doesn’t trample my feet. She moves down about four seats past me, along with the other woman, and I’m promptly forgotten.
I stare at her a moment more, while she bends her head toward the other woman and they whisper to each other. They look so much alike, I’m pegging them as sisters.
I don’t know what it is about Sutton that sets her apart. Maybe it’s the way she refused to judge me when I first met her in her office. Or maybe it’s the way she lives her life with such zest. It could possibly even be the fact that the girl is smokin’ hot and I’m seriously attracted to her.
Whatever the reasons, I like Sutton Price. I like her a lot and for probably a million other reasons. I probably like her most for the fact that she is getting me to reevaluate the way I look at things.
I close my eyes as a smile lingers on my face, and drift off to sleep.
Chapter 10
Sutton
Interestingly enough, I actually needed a ticket to get into the Cold Fury’s Sunday practice session and Alex had sent one over to the office for me. Not all of the practices are closed. When they practice at the actual Cold Fury arena, those are usually open to the public. But when they practice in this small, private facility, they let in people only by invitation, and so I needed a ticket. Had we not planned on working after, I would have asked for an extra ticket for Glenn, but I’m hoping I can get one for him another time.
Alex also sent me an email with directions to the practice rink. He added a note that said, “Pay attention to our drills. I’ll quiz you after.”
I had to smile at that because I had so much fun talking to him on the phone the other night, listening to his patient voice as he taught me all about the various penalties. He never got frustrated when I broke in with a question, and I swear, even the tone of his voice was the most carefree and light that I had heard since I met him. He told me once that he hated the game of hockey, but you couldn’t tell by our conversation that night.
Shelley called me this morning, and I had to listen to her gripe for ten minutes over the fact that her husband, Sean, won’t pick up his underwear off the floor. Sean is in his first year of medical school at the University of Pittsburgh, and Shelley is completing her master’s in speech pathology. They’re both super busy and I suggested to her that perhaps she should just let that slide, because in the grand scheme of things it’s probably not that big a deal.
Then we lapsed into an hour-long conversation about Alex. We both sat with our laptops opened and Googled him relentlessly. Shelley spent time ogling his pictures and I spent time reading tidbits to her from articles. It seems he did, indeed, have a reputation for being quite a prick not only to other players, but to Cold Fury fans as well. Apparently, the only reason it was forgivable was because he’s so damn good at what he does.
I couldn’t find any information about his personal life, though. There were no mentions of his parents or other family members. There were no celebrity pictures of him with hot women on his arm. Nothing. The only thing that was apparently newsworthy about Alex was the fact he is a phenomenal player.
Not completely weird, but it certainly painted him as something I already understood: He’s a loner.
Once I get inside the complex, I immediately notice that none of the players are on the ice yet. The ticket just got me in the door and there is no assigned seating. The building isn’t much more than a huge hockey rink with about ten rows of seating that slant upward from the glass that surrounds the ice. I walk over to an area filled with what I’m thinking are family members as it’s heavy on women and kids, all wearing regular street clothes. The next section over seems to be more for fans, as they are decked out in Cold Fury jerseys and other franchise clothing.
Taking an empty seat in the front row, I pull out my iPhone and idly thumb through my emails from work. I check in on Facebook and post a message that says, Watching a Cold Fury practice session. Yay, me!
I check my text messages and see one from Brandon. We’ve had some friendly banter back and forth through texts and Facebook. I think he’s making a genuine effort to start out as friends with me, understanding I’m just not ready to look at anything more with him right now.
His texts are funny, sometimes sweet, but once in a while, he’ll say something that might feel a little pressurizing. Like right now.
Missing you today. Any chance of dinner again?
See…that steps outside the bounds of friendship and I wonder if I should say something to him—to nip this in the bud.
“You know you can’t take pictures while you’re in here,” a voice causes me to look up and forget all about texting Brandon back.
A beautiful woman stands there, looking down at me with haughty eyes. She has white-blond hair that comes down in a straight, silky curtain past her shoulders. She has on a pink fuzzy sweater that seems to be painted onto her and tight black jeans. Another woman who looks almost exactly like her stands just behind, peering at me.
“Oh, I’m not taking pictures. Just texting,” I tell her apologetically, although I’m not sure why. I don’t think she’s part of the arena police.
She doesn’t respond but pushes her way into the aisle that I’m in, and I hastily turn my legs to the side so she doesn’t trample my feet. She moves down about four seats past me, along with the other woman, and I’m promptly forgotten.
I stare at her a moment more, while she bends her head toward the other woman and they whisper to each other. They look so much alike, I’m pegging them as sisters.
