Breakneck Hockey (Heartbreak Hockey #3)

4. Sutter to the Rescue

Chapter 4

Sutter to the Rescue

Sutter

I don’t think too much about my phone ringing until I see the caller. I get so many of those damn scam calls that I ignore any and all phone calls I don’t recognize. But I know this one.

“Counsellor Mitch?”

“You don’t have to call me that outside of camp. What’s going on, Charles?”

Okay, so, I have a protection complex and it runs deep. There are a few kids at camp I’m worried about. I gave them my number for emergencies. They know I’m only around for the summer.

“Can you come to my house? Now? ”

There’s something desperate in his voice. I don’t think, I just act. “Yeah, text me the address.”

I’m not in Vancouver tonight, I’m in Langley, which is an hour outside of the City of Vancouver, chilling with old friends. I grew up in Langley. It’s where Ma and I lived when we had Dad.

We usually hang out on Lane’s beaten leather couch, drinking beers. It’s seen better days, but he won’t let me buy him a new one.

“We don’t need your fancy-ass money, Sutter,” is what he says every time I mention it. I should just fucking send one, but he’d probably light it on fire after pissing on it. Lane’s … been through some shit. He’s the eldest Curtis brother.

Tonight, four of us are on the porch with our asses planted in squeaky deck chairs. Move too suddenly and the legs might give out. The night got crisp enough that I had to grab my jacket from my car, but it’s better than being inside. Out here a woodsy scent permeates everything. The freshly cut grass wafting from the big yard brings with it the best of summer nostalgia. It’s not quite the same in the city. The city’s more sea-flavored because it’s so close to the ocean. On some nights, I swear I can taste the salt in the air.

I stand up. The chair groans in relief. “Gotta go,” I say. Thank fuck I didn’t drink with them. I had one beer earlier but stopped because I was considering driving back to town and abducting Alderchuck. Guess that’s out now.

“You hittin’ up that sweet ass again?” Lane says.

Tension creases my body. My eyes narrow. Fucking dickhead for saying that, but kinda my fault. I bring them to Casey’s work sometimes when I feel like fucking with him. Casey was foolish enough to let where he worked slip when he was in a my-dick-induced coma one night. Even if he hadn’t told me, I would have harassed Rhett for the information. Fucking with Alderchuck on the ice was fun, fucking with him off the ice is a whole new playground of toys.

Still, Lane talking about Casey like that has my hands curling into fists. Calm down, Sutter. I keep my mouth shut. I’m not gonna start shit over Casey. Why should I care how Lane talks about him? He has got a sweet ass I like to fuck, but that’s it. The rest of the time, I want to bury him and his loudmouth six feet under.

“Not tonight. One of the kids needs my help.”

“You’re such a dad, Sutter.”

I laugh. “Not in any way shape or form am I a dad. Maybe big brother figure.”

“Whatever. You need our help?”

Thing is, I don’t know. I didn’t ask questions. “Maybe. I’ll text you if I need anything.” Not tonight, though. The three of them are too drunk for driving, even though this was a tame night for us.

T he address takes me twenty minutes outside of Langley to the City of Aldergrove. Driving down Fraser Road is always a dark venture when the sun’s down. I don’t know why they refuse to install enough lights on this portion of the drive so that relying on your high beams isn’t a necessity. The feeling of creeping into nowhere grips me.

I pull up to a ramshackle house. Moss grows in a wave over the roof. Rusted bicycles decorate the lawn like an eighties high-school movie. The moon’s a bright one tonight, and the remnants of chrome left clinging to the bike frames shimmer and move, never letting your gaze stop on one thing. It’s the eerie sort of movement that stirs in my chest. It’s the kind of eerie that comes bearing reminders.

Dad. Dad? Can I come out now?

The stairs creak under my weight, I check for the blade in my pocket. Should I knock or barge in? Goddammit. I should have asked more questions. But his voice. I just wanted to get here.

I wished someone had been there to help me. I wished someone had been there to help him.

Barging in it is. The door isn’t locked. It damn well should be. There aren’t enough locks on this door anyway—that’s getting rectified immediately.

Footsteps patter. I catch the wooden bat in my fat palm mid-swing—mother fucking, ow!—and tug the assailant toward me. I meet two scared green eyes. Charles. His chest rises and falls, rapidly.

“Shit, Mitchell. I thought you were a robber or somethin’.”

“Lock the fuckin’ door, kid.”

“Yeah, uh. Sorry. I’m not thinking straight.”

He steps into the only light available, moonlight, spilling over us from the open door. His bloodshot eyes and fresh tear tracks tell me what he’s been doing the last hour. His Nikki Six haircut’s flopping all over the place. Everything about his expression says, thank fuck you’re here.

“This, um, this way.”

I step over piles of shit toward their quaint living room—piles of books, clothes, empty Tupperware containers—where the space opens to worn carpet, more clutter, and an old couch. A thin woman sits on the couch against the arm, staring, watching a movie none of us can see. There’s a little boy with a mop of messy dark hair falling in his face at her feet, on his knees, perched over the coffee table, coloring.

A furious crayon moves back and forth. He’s wearing it down to the bone.

Surrounding his notepad are plates of food in various stages of decay.

“I can’t get my mom to respond. She won’t eat. She won’t eat!” Charles repeats. The little boy flinches, curls over his coloring, probably wishing he could disappear. It’s hard to work out what’s going on in his little mind. “Please get her to eat, Mitch.”

This is way outside my wheelhouse, but I’ve been to enough therapy myself to know a good therapist is what she needs. Looking around, it’s clear they’d never be able to afford it. Whatever I do is better than no one doing anything at all.

Anything, anything at all would have been something. Something might have scared them off.

“I’m gonna get your mom some help,” I promise, knowing that’s only the tip of the iceberg. The scrape of a crayon in that little hand fills the silence for several of my hammering heartbeats. When it was just me and Ma, it felt exactly like I’m feeling now. The blanket of hopelessness wrapped around us. I was the one who spiraled, not Mom. What if it had been my mom?

I’d be a minor criminal like Lane and Company because that’s the way I was going. I’d feel the same level of utter desperation in Charles’s eyes.

“No.” Charles breaks the silence. “Why the fuck do you think I called you? I want you to help her. If you get her ‘help’,” he says using quotations around the word help. “They take us to foster care and then who knows where the fuck Stevie will end up.”

Little boy must be Stevie.

Lane has the same views on foster care as Charles, but they’re a generation apart. Surely things have improved by now?

I run a hand over the bandana covering my hair, pulling a deep inhale. Fuck, the air in here’s so fucking stale. We need to open a window.

“What’s your mom’s name?”

“Shelly West.”

“Shelly, my name is Mitchell Sutter. I’m here to steal all your belongings.”

Nothing. No response. Just droopy eyelids and a sagging facial expression.

The longer I’m here, the more my demons reach their claws from the shadows.

Dead screams—ones that never hit the air—wake from their long sleep inside my head.

But I don’t know what the right thing to do is. It should be obvious, because a foster home has to be better than this, but ripping someone from the only family they know’s a heavy fucking decision. It’s not straightforward. It’s also not one that needs to be made tonight.

“When was the last time she ate?” A mild tremor moves through me. Dammit. Get your shit together, Sutter. I take a slow breath to steady myself, hoping Charles is too panicked to see my mild panic.

“Yesterday morning. I’ve been able to force water down her throat.”

I’ll bet that’s a fun time.

“When she’s herself, she’s great. I promise,” he says, lip trembling. “Makes the best cookies. House fucking sparkles.”

“I call bullshit on the house sparkling, but I believe you, Charles.” The problem isn’t when she’s herself, but I see where he’s going. He thinks that if we can get her back to herself, everything will go back to normal. Hell, I want to believe that too. That’s the fairytale outcome.

As it calms down, my mind forms a temporary plan.

Heading over to Stevie, I crouch. His hand pauses, he doesn’t move his head, but I know he’s watching me in his periphery. His coloring’s nothing but a blue mass of scribbles. The crayon’s down to the quick. He’s got the darkest brow line ever, creasing the fuck out of his forehead.

“I’m Mitchell,” I tell him. “Some people call me Sutter.” I like going by my surname. It was my dad’s. I opted to keep it even when Francisco adopted me.

This little guy looks too young to be in Francisco’s program, which explains why he isn’t, but he’s exactly why we do it. Young men and boys who can’t afford therapy, who need to build some confidence and learn some skills.

“Charlie…?” Stevie’s lip trembles. Charles scoops him into his skinny arms.

“You’re fine, pal. Mitch is here to help. He’s gonna make sure we stay together and that Mom gets better.”

You little shit, trying to guilt me. It won’t work, but it will buy him a night.

“Get him ready for bed. I’m gonna put your mama to bed.” If she’ll let me. I’m banking on her being too weak to fight me. “Upsie daisy, Mama West.”

I lift her bridal style. She doesn’t flinch, but she finally moves, arms tightening around my neck. She’s in there somewhere, and from that somewhere she’s willing to accept my help.

Fuck. I am not cut out for this.

T he Curtis brothers pull through. I told them to buy a Walmart out of cleaning supplies, garbage bags, and food. I gave them a list of items I needed from Home Depot and transferred them a bunch of money. I don’t wanna know how they would have acquired the shit I needed otherwise. I also had Lane bring me some of his clothes. I’m gonna be here for a few days, and I don’t exactly fit into Mama West’s stuff.

I know it’s wrong to think about sex at a time like this, but sex is how I relax, and I need to fucking relax. Naturally, Alderchuck springs to mind. Plus, thinking about Casey is a helluva lot better than the other things plaguing me. I don’t know what it is about this place. Is it because the neighborhood reminds me of the one Ma and I lived in with Dad? Is it the whole single mom thing? Mom raised me on her own until she met Francisco, and I was a fucking hellion.

Is it because of how much Charles reminds me of me? Maybe it’s all of it. Whatever it is, I can’t stay too much longer or I’m gonna be pulled under with them.

What better way to keep myself afloat than to slide my dick into Alderchuck?

Focus, Sutter.

Yeah, yeah.

Over the next couple of days, we do things like install new and better locks on the doors. I get Charles and Stevie to help me. I get them to help me fix other shit, too. I don’t expect either of them to be as interested as they are.

“I joined the Moose Scouts because I knew I needed to learn how to do basic tasks like this,” Charles says. “I wanted to know that …”

“That you could rely on yourself?” I try. I know someone just like that.

He nods, swallowing. “That.”

He’s too much the tough guy to admit how scared he is, but it’s clear as day in his tight body language.

It takes us two days to get the house sorted. We load up Lane’s rusty old truck with too many garbage bags of stuff. We still can’t get Mama West to eat, but at least we’ve forced some Pedialyte into her.

Austin Curtis, who’s a big man, but has the face for passing as friendly, keeps Stevie and Charles busy so Lane can pull me aside.

“You’re not gonna do what I think you’re gonna do,” he says.

“What else am I going to do? I’m not ready for fatherhood, and even if I was, no judge in the world is going to let me foster kids. I need to find them someplace to stay.” Asking my parents crosses my mind. Plus, Dad practices family law, which means he’s definitely an asset in a case like this, but he’s got a pretty solid boundary when it comes to taking kids home from camp. Otherwise, they’d all be home with us. I can’t be sure he wouldn’t want to see about getting them into the foster care system immediately.

“Then maybe they stay with us for a bit,” Lane suggests. “Till Mama West is better.”

I know Lane like the back of my hand, so I know the look on his face. He’s not asking, but I don’t give a shit. “Not a fucking chance.”

“For the last time, we’re not a biker gang.”

I list off the proof. “Wears leather, rides around on motorbikes, conducts shady business.”

He smirks. “You have some points, but even if we were a biker gang—which I still deny—we’re better than foster care.”

That’s different. He usually denies they’re a biker gang by telling me that biker gangs have money. Do they have money now? If they do, why hasn’t he replaced their damn couch?

“I know you had a bad experience but?—”

“Bad enough to make me start a biker gang.” He raises a cocky brow. “But I guess I have to say you’re right about them not staying with us. What about letting them live here under our watch? We’ll stop in to check on them every week. They’ve been on their own this long anyway, what’s a few months or so until their mom gets on her feet again?”

He doesn’t have a clue about how therapy works. But his idea gives me an idea of my own.

“Charles, get your ass over here.”

He’s up quickly from the chair at the table we fixed. It’s a decent table, just needed a few bits and bolts.

“Do you have any relatives at all you can stay with?”

“None.”

“Are you sure? No uncles, aunts? A gramma?”

“There’s Mom’s brother?—”

“That’s great! Your uncle.”

“Don’t get too excited. We haven’t seen him since we were little. I don’t have a clue where he might be.”

Still, I file that in my head as a lead. “What about your dad?”

“Haven’t seen him seen him in years. He left. Does this mean you’re going to send us to a home or something?” His lip trembles again. It’s gotta stop doing that. My cold heart can’t take it.

I sigh. “Don’t make me regret this, but I’m not calling any officials just yet. We’ll give it some time.”

His face lights up. “Sweet. You’re the best, Sutter.”

“Save your thanks. It comes with conditions.” See, I know this guy called Rhett Elkington. He’ll do things for me no questions asked. All I need is a therapist who’s willing to make some house calls. Who might also be willing to keep this under wraps. Elkingtons know people like that, and I have the money to hire someone like that. “We’re gonna try something. If it doesn’t work, I pull the plug, so you’d better do every damn thing I say.”

“I always do!” He glares.

“So you didn’t make out with Joey behind the Mess Hall building like I told you not to?”

His face flushes pink. “You don’t have someone special, Sutter? C’mon. Tell me you’re gonna resist someone you’re crushing on?”

“Yeah, tell him, Mitch,” stupid Lane says.

“I haven’t called Casey in a week, asshole.”

“Oooh, so his name’s Casey,” Charles says.

It’s my turn for heating cheeks. What the fuck? Alderchuck’s the last person I’m gonna get embarrassed about, but my body doesn’t seem to get the message.

“You’re too young to understand what that’s about,” I tell him, wrapping him in a headlock, and noogie the fuck out of him. He laughs. “But anyway, rules.”

I go through my list of conditions with him, and he doesn’t like some of them but agrees to them anyway. “I’ll get a bank account set up for you for groceries and whatnot. I want receipts. You’re not spending it on booze or gifts for your boyfriend.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll chip in for the booze, kid,” Lane says.

“No, you fucking won’t.” I’m already doubting this terrible plan. “No booze until you’re nineteen.”

“We’re fucking with you, man,” Lane says, but I don’t think he is. I can’t trust that he won’t feed the kids alcohol, but I can trust that he’ll keep them safe. That’s gonna have to be enough for now.

I ’m not in the door five minutes, and I’m shooting off a text to Casey to get his ass to my place. I need relief. I need … I don’t fucking know. But being in that house, seeing the state of those kids, it’s fucked me up. My situation wasn’t the same, but there were enough similar elements to bring it all rushing back.

Kitten

I’m out, man. I have a whole life that doesn’t involve your dick.

Not fucking likely.

I almost text him a “when are you done?” but I’m not that desperate. I can hit up someone on Benduovr. Before I can pull up the app, another text comes through.

Kitten

You willing to meet at mine late? Like, late, late?

Unfortunately, I know I’m willing to meet him at any time he wants. I’m not telling him that.

Me

How late, Alderchuck? I don’t have all night to wait for you.

Kitten

One am?

Question mark? Fuck his question mark.

Me

One am, sharp, or you don’t cum, Alderchuck.

Kitten

Gee. You sound like a carnival of fun tonight, Sutter. Can’t wait.

M y anger doesn’t fade. It’s a full-fledged frenzy by the time he waltzes up to the door ten minutes late. It’s dark, but does he take stock of his surroundings before he gets out of the Uber? No. His brother and the two other guys they always hang out with, climb out too. At least his brother looks around. He catches sight of my car, which isn’t incognito, and waves.

There’s an exchange between the two Alderchucks before Casey waves me over. This is fucking ridiculous. I need to get tail elsewhere.

After tonight.

My car door slams distantly as if I’m not the one doing it. Rage is all there is. Rage in the form of an unspent weapon loaded and cocked within my muscles. But I don’t move from my car, frozen in place. What am I doing here at this time of night? This is crazy. Alderchuck isn’t the only fish in the Vancouver sea. I’m turning around. I’m getting the fuck out of?—

“Well look who it is,” one of the other two says. I forget their names. One of them is too pretty to be a hockey player. Hockey players should have crooked noses and fake or missing teeth. At the very least, they should be rugged like Casey. This guy’s never been touched by a fist. Though, I think I see why. The other Alderchuck—the one that doesn’t belong to me—is all kinds of protective of him.

The way he looks at him. The way he lets the guy lean against him. I’ll bet that extends to the ice and he doesn’t let anyone touch him. That’s gotta be how he’s stayed so pretty. Is that Other Alderchuck’s boyfriend?

“Boston finally kicked you to the curb and you’re here to beg one of our teams to take you on?” the other one says.

“Be nice, guys,” my Alderchuck says. “He’s fragile. Just ask his nose.”

On another night, I might take their ribbing in stride and rally back. The nose thing is low-hanging fruit by this point. But I’m not in the fucking mood.

“I’m here for one reason only, Alderchuck. Your ass. It’s all you’re good for, so let’s do this.”

All three raise a brow that clearly says, you want us to escort him off the property?

It was a dick thing to say, but my and Alderchuck’s game isn’t fueled by nice, it’s fueled by hate.

Casey shrugs. “All he’s good for is his dick. Trust me. This isn’t even Sutter at his finest hour of douchebaggery.”

“Yeah, fine. Move it into the house, guys,” Other Alderchuck says, taking charge. He’s not in charge of me.

I lean against my car, waiting. I have half a mind to steal Alderchuck and bring him to my place instead.

“Fucking Christ, Sutter. You coming?” He runs fingers through his hair, fed up with me but, like me, unwilling to give up a night of the kind of sex we have just because I’m in a bad mood. He waves me on. “C’mon.”

Yeah, fine. I peel myself from my car, leaving angry smoke in my wake.