Page 54 of Blindside Sinner

“I most certainly do not.” It’s a lame comeback, I’m aware, but my brain is kinda short-circuiting right now.

“You bitch and grumble, but you do it.” He smolders, though it looks weirdly pained. “And I’m telling you again, Sloan: stay away from my friends.”

I don’t bother fumbling for a comeback this time. I turn and burst through my door, then slam it shut in Beck’s stupid face. What scares me most of all is the sting of angry tears in my eyes as I do it. I don’t let them fall, of course, but they’re there for reasons I can’t explain.

I should’ve walked back home alone.

27

BECK

I wake up early and decide to lace up my running shoes. I haven’t been out in the morning like this in years. Weirdly enough, I’m actually looking forward to it.

And I haven’t seen the sunrise in… Come to think of it, I can’t remember when the last time was.

The first mile is easy. By the second, I break a sweat. But when I’ve gone five and wind up back at home, I am refreshed and energized. I stop at the mailbox at the end of the drive. Even something as simple as getting my own mail feels foreign these days because I never do it—Sloan does it for me.

I brush all thoughts of her away.

The mail isn’t more than a couple bills, an advertisement, an invitation to join an online book club, and an unadorned, unaddressed envelope. The last piece is the one I open.

Black rose petals tumble out of the envelope. Written on a blank sheet of paper are four words in an angry scrawl.

STAY AWAY FROM HER

I frown and read it a few more times, but that’s all it says. Pretty hard to misread a four-word sentence, right?

Someone is horribly misinformed, though. It’s been weeks—maybe months, I can’t be sure—since I’ve been with anyone. Fans are like that sometimes. I get hate mail, love mail, you-can-do-better mail. Sometimes, I getshe-can-do-better mail but that’s usually an ex with an ax to grind trying to work her way back into my life.

This is just another one of those, definitely. Good for kindling for the fireplace and not a whole lot else. I crumple the letter and walk up the driveway.

I head inside the house. En route to the shower, I stop to shoot the balled-up hate letter into the trash can. I clank it off the front rim and curse under my breath, then do the shuffle of shame over and pick it up.

I don’t want Sloan to see it and lose her mind over something I haven’t done. I don’t need the drama. Or the accusation. Or for her to look at me like I’m a piece of shit.

She does that often enough anyway.

I shower and get dressed. Tonight’s pregame attire is a three-piece gray pinstripe suit with a deep crimson shirt and matching pocket square and tie.

I have to hand it to Sloan—the girl knows her hair products. Stuffing my locker at the arena full of the crap may have started as a prank, but I started using a dab of it here, a dab of it there, and now, I’m getting compliments out the ass. An announcer ina pregame show I was on last week commented asked if “ladies like running their fingers through it.”

When I’m ready, I walk down the stairs to meet up with Sloan for my ride to the rink. She’s standing in the kitchen with a glass of orange juice poised for a drink. She gives me a lingering up-down onceover before she realizes what she’s doing and glances away in a hurry.

“Good morning, Ms. Reeves,” I say with a beaming grin. “I can give you a runway turn if you’d like. We both know the back looks as good as the front.”

She snorts. “I’ll pass,Mr. Daniels.It’s hard enough to tell the difference between your ass and your face as it is.”

I just keep on smirking. The little hellcat talks a big game, but her parted lips and the liquid heat in her eyes tell a whole different story.

As if she knows I see right through her, she dumps the rest of her drink down the drain, plunks the glass in the dishwasher a little too hard, and practically sprints for the door.

I chuckle as I follow her outside. By the time I get to the car, she’s already buckled up and ready to roll. Her jaw is tight and her knuckles are white around the steering wheel. She glances at me, just a quick jerk of her head, but I feel the heat of it in my gut.

“Sleep well?” I ask innocently.

She makes a gagging motion. “Don’t start pretending like you’re a gentleman now.” Then she starts driving.

She doesn’t speak again before we get to the rink and neither do I. I’m in a good mood—last night’s weird moment at Sloan’s doorfeels like nothing more than a distant dream—until she pulls into our parking spot…

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