Page 139 of Blindside Sinner

“She’s my boss, Beck.”

“But she’s my problem.”

His eyes are gleaming with that stubborn determination of his that I love and despise, depending on the day. Right now, it mostly just scares me.

But for the time being, that’s all we’re saying about it. We don’t have time for a discussion. He needs to focus on the game and the plays and all the things that go into being Beckett Daniels. And I need to do my job so he can do his.

So with a sigh, I take his hand and we go downstairs to leave.

The only sound in the car is the road noise, the murmur of tires on the pavement. As soon as we’re out of the car, there’s no more talk of relationships or who knows what or how we’re going to hide it. Instead, he nods at me once and strides inside.

He’s a man with a purpose. A job to do.

No one on Planet Earth does it better.

I play on my phone for a while during warmups. To my surprise and delight, Vivian’s seat remains empty all the way through the end of the second period. She’s actually giving me a night to enjoy myself? Wonders never cease.

I bop over to get a small popcorn during the second intermission. But when I return to my section, I see someone in Vivian’s seat.

The good news is that it’s not her.

The bad news is that it’s someone much, much worse.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” says a foul, slimy voice I never want to hear. The Bloodhound turns and regards me with that crooked, beady-eyed stare of his as I approach and sink into my seat with trembling knees.

My stomach sinks. He’s wearing his usual wifebeater shirt with a pair of black jeans that have too many holes for a man his age to pull off and a leather jacket shot through with cracks. His hair is slicked back and he needs a shave.

Same Bloodhound. Different day.

“If it isn’t my favoriteformerwaitress.”

The only reply I can think of is, “Shit.”

“You’ve been lying to me, darlin’. Holding out on me.” He leans in and sniffs me.

I crane back so I’m out of smelling distance. “No. I haven’t lied.”

“Saw you on the TV. I looked up and thought, ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Ain’t that little Sloan Reeves?’” He shrugs. “Anyhow. Where’s my money?”

“I didn’t bring it to the game.”

“That’s okay. With the higher interest rate, you wouldn’t have brought enough anyway. You know how it is. The economy these days is a bitch, ain’t it?”

“I don’t have that kind of money.” I’m trying to avoid a full-blown panic attack. Beck is going to be back on the ice soon and I need the Bloodhound to go the fuck away before Beck sees and asks questions I can’t afford to answer.

“I suggest you find it then, sweetheart.” He leers at me again. His teeth are like cracked tombstones, stained yellow by cigarettes. If he doesn’t get the hell away from me, STAT, I’m going to vomit popcorn all over his lap.

I shudder. “I’ll… I’ll figure it out.”

“Oh, I know you will.” He clamps an insanely strong hand down over my wrist. “You’ll find a way to pay or we’ll figure somethingelseout, I’m sure.” Relinquishing his grip on me, he rises to his feet and picks an imaginary piece of lint off his jacket. “Find me tomorrow.” He shoots me one more leer and nods to the ice. “Daniels is my favorite player, too, you know. Funny we have that in common.”

And then he’s gone and I can breathe again. For a minute. Anuntil tomorrowreprieve isn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

I’m going to be thousands of dollars short at least.

And I have no idea what to do about it.

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