Page 57 of Blindside Saint

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

For now.

28

BECK

We’re T-minus three minutes to game time and Sloan still isn’t here. I know she has security and I know she’s being extra careful, but any time she’s later than normal, I’m on edge. I don’t see that changing in the foreseeable future.

We’ve done the warmups, the anthem, and recognized some special attendees, and now, we’re lined up for faceoff. Obviously, I can’t concentrate, so Dix is taking the puck drop and I’m waiting out of the circle.

But then I look up and she’s in her seat.

Thank the fucking Lord.

I’m trying not to be overreactive, but she’s carrying my baby and my old man is as likely to kidnap her again as he is to show up in the night and knife me in my sleep just for kicks.

Keeping my shit balanced is a challenge. But at least she’s here and she’s smiling, safe, healthy.

She’s here. It’s okay. I can breathe.

But even though everything is theoretically where it’s supposed to be, this whole night feels off. I’m on my heels, slow, and all my shots sail wide or high or to the easy glove side.

I even whiff on a shot. Ineverwhiff.

I end up having to hook a guy to keep him from breaking away with the puck I just completely airmailed, so of course, the ref’s arm goes up, and off to the penalty box I go.

I sit all by my damn lonesome for an agonizingly long two minutes, always conscious that she’s here and behind me. Normally, it’s an incentive to play better, hit harder, skate faster. Today, not so much.

When the game ends, I’m the first one in the locker room and the first dressed to leave. There are fans in the tunnel today, so I don’t notice the PI until I walk past and he hurries to catch up. “Mr. Daniels.”

I stop. Sloan is waiting for me at the end of the tunnel, and the last thing I want is for her to see me talking to this guy. Grimacing, I drag him toward the locker room.

When we’re alone, he holds out a folder. I eye it warily. Information is what I’m paying him for, right? But my gut says I’m not going to like this one bit.

I take the folder reluctantly and open it up to see a few glossy photographs. The first is of Sloan. I can’t tell where she is, but I damned well know who the fuck she’s talking to. It sure as hell looks like she’s either handing him an envelope or taking one from him.

The next picture clears that up.

She gave my father something. No prizes for guessing what might be in the envelope.

Fuck.What I don’t know is why she is paying my father off.

I don’t know who I’m more upset with. I’m sure that at one point after the kidnapping, I asked him how he knows her. For the life of me, I can’t remember the answer, and I feel like an idiot for not crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s.

I didn’t think. I assumed that he took her to get to me.

Now, I don’t knowwhatto believe.

Of course, the PI won’t have this information, but I damned sure know who will. I pull my phone out and dial the number. When he answers, I don’t bother with pleasantries. My father is not really ahey-how-ya-doin’kind of guy anyway.

“We need to talk.”

He laughs. “You’re reading my mind, boy.”

“I’ll be at your place in twenty minutes.” He’d better hope I calm down before I get there, too.

“No. Not my place. At the warehouse.”

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