Page 149 of Blindside Sinner

I grimace again and press my forehead against the marble countertop. He’s making sense, as much as I hate to admit it. I miss those days. The days when I wouldn’t have thought twice before dragging her against me, kissing her, fucking her until she saw reason.

I would’ve never let this shit stand before.

So why am I doing it now?

I straighten up. “You know what?”

“You don’t have to tell me: I’m right.” He smiles, proud as hell.

I know I’ll be hearing about this until one of us gets traded or dies, but that’s just the price you pay sometimes with friends.

“Yeah. Don’t get too excited. It had to happen one of these days.”

But I’m through being patient. I’m tired of not knowing what the fuck is going on with her and why she won’t talk to me, why she all of the sudden decided that we’d moved too fast, why she didn’t want to be together.

And she’s going to tell me the reasons—therealones, not the bullshit she’s been feeding me. She’s stubborn, no doubt, but there’s no man, woman, or creature alive who’s a match for me.

Sloan Reeves is about to find out just how true that is.

74

SLOAN

When things with Beck and I were good, I enjoyed the games.

Now, each and every one is a torture session.

Tonight is just the latest. It’s game night, and whether I like it or not (spoiler: I don’t), it’s my job to be at the game, to watch him in all his glory, to sit in my seat as tens of thousands of people scream his name.

I hate that part of me wants to scream right along with them.

But that’s a problem for future Sloan. Before I can get to the stadium for puck drop, I have a scheduled meeting with Vivian. For once, I’m not even nervous. If she reminds me of the clause in my contract to stay away from Beck, I can swear with Girl Scout’s honor that that’s exactly what I’ve done.

I’m more nervous for what’s coming after the game, actually. I promised him that we’ll talk then.

As I walk into Vivian’s office building, I’m almost tempted to start off by asking if she has anyone else on her client roster whoneeds an assistant. Just in case the talk with Beck goes the way I fear it might.

Her office is stiflingly hot today. As I’m waiting for her secretary to tell me to go in, a bead of sweat rolls down my spine.

Fifteen minutes pass and more beads of sweat join the first. Vivian takes a perverse joy in making me wait outside her office for meetings I would rather not attend so she can be harsh about things that are none of her business.

But I need this job, so I just grin and bear it.

I go over my plan in my head one more time, just to be sure: I’m going to walk in there, smiling and pleasant and sincere when I tell her for the hundredth time that I’m not banging Beck. Although this time, it’ll actually be true.

More minutes tick by. It’s almost an hour beyond our meeting time before the secretary finally clears her throat in my direction. “Ms. St. James will see you now.”

When I walk in, she’s sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed and one of her man-eater smiles on her face.

She motions with her head to the chair across from her desk. I sit.

“Sloan. How are things with Beckett?”

“Fine. He’s an asshole when he’s in a bad mood. Easy enough when he’s not. He’s working hard, staying sober and clean, getting to practice and games on time. I make sure of it.”

“I’m sure you do.” She regards me with a squinty gaze with a few moments longer, looking for signs I’m bluffing, before evidently finding none. Only then does she exhale and lean back in herseat. “That’s all good. Beck needs to focus on his play. If he makes the All-Star team, his power to renegotiate his contract increases. Last thing he needs is anything messing that up.”

I swallow all the things I’d prefer to say and instead offer up the basics: “Absolutely. He needs to pay attention to his job. A hundred percent.”

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