Page 55 of Blindside Sinner

And I see Dixon waiting for our arrival.

He perks up as soon as he sees us. Meanwhile, my blood starts a slow boil.

It doesn’t get any better when Sloan pretty much leaps out of the car the second it’s stopped. The two of them get to chattering immediately.

I turn my back on both and walk away.

I’m still on fire when Dixon strolls into the locker room, even though it’s only been a couple minutes. He’s got his headphones on and he’s grinning ear to ear.

As soon as he’s within arms’ reach, I grab him by the shoulder and rip him around.

“Hey, asshole—stay away from Sloan.”

He arches one eyebrow high on his forehead. “You know, B, for not liking her, you’re awfully possessive.”

I don’t need his shit. He’s the closest thing I’ve got to a best friend, so I shouldn’t have to tell him to stay away from her. She’s keeping my life on track right now. That’s a hell of a lot more important than him getting his dick wet.

“Just stay the fuck away from her, alright?”

He holds up his hands like he’s surrendering. “Whatever you say, bro. But I don’t think I’m the one you have to worry about.”

I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but I don’t bother asking. Scowling, I quickly pull my warmup jersey on over my pads and stride out of the locker room. I hit the door with my shoulder so hard that it flies into the opposite wall with asmackthat rings throughout the arena.

Our equipment manager is waiting at the mouth of the tunnel. He hands me my stick and helmet along with my gloves, then I head to the ice to start game prep.

The first lap is a sprint. It shouldn’t be—I’m not warmed up, my muscles aren’t ready—but my adrenaline is pumping.

Dix joins as I’m starting my second lap. He falls into step beside me. “Wanna race? Winner take all?”

We both know he’s needling me about Sloan, and I don’t like it one fucking bit. With a reckless cackle, he races off and I give chase. He’s tall and wiry for a guy who stands six-five and two hundred thirty pounds, but he’s fast. I won’t beat him in a straight-out sprint race, so I cut the rink in half to take a hard angle. Right as he’s rounding the bend in the corner, I shoulder-check him hard into the boards.

He’s not expecting it, so the collision looks and sounds a lot worse than I intended.

Even worse, I can hear the clicks of cameras, Coach’s shouts, plus the gasp of the small crowd walking in, all the early folks waiting for photo ops and pregame meet and greets.

Fuck.

Well, no going back now.

I didn’t shove him hard enough to do any damage, and if I wanted him hurt, I would’ve made sure he was.

But one way or another, we’re going to hash this out.

“The hell are you doing, Daniels?” Coach shouts.

I don’t answer because I don’t reallyknowthe answer. I go over to Dix and help him up, but I don’t let go of his hand once he’s back on his feet. Dragging him in close enough to snarl in his ear so only he can hear it, I say, “Stay the hell away from Sloan. She isn’t some bimbo. She’s my assistant.”

His face wrinkles with anger. “You slept with my trainer, my dietician, the doctor who did my shoulder surgery, my agent, my dog walker, my building manager, and my sister’s best friend. That’s the pot calling the kettle black, Daniels. You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

“I didn’t plan any of those,” I mutter, but it sounds half-assed even to my own ears.

“And I’m not ‘planning’ to sleep with Sloan.”

We stare each other down for a few tense seconds before the click of more cameras behind the nearby glass breaks up the tension.

Then I sigh. I don’t like what’s happening in my head lately. Sloan came into my life—unasked for, unwanted—and suddenly, everything is falling to pieces. I’m fighting with my best friend like he’s my worst enemy. I’m having crazy dreams and I can’t sleep. It’s a shitshow, and one way or another, it needs to end.

Before it makes me do something I regret.

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