Page 58 of Blindside Sinner

Finally, I turn. He’s wearing a pair of Seattle Wave joggers tapered at the ankle, a half-zip lightweight sweatshirt with no shirt underneath, and his feet are bare. His hair is still wet and stuck up at strange angles. He’s never looked more beautiful.

“I’ll answer three of your questions,” he says tiredly. “Use them wisely.”

I sit back. I expected I would have to beat the information out of him, so I have nothing prepared. “Okay. Uh, how did you get involved with it?”

He purses his lips. “I know you’re expecting some sob story about court-ordered community service or probation requirements, but it’s actually nothing like that. A kid sent me a letter.” He smiles at something in the distance. “His name’s Quint.” And then the smile fades. “WasQuint. His name was Quint.”

“Was?” I don’t even care if that counts as my second question. My heart is in my throat.

Beck nods. His gaze is down now, rooted between his feet. “He was killed by his mom’s boyfriend. But he wanted to learn to play hockey. Get a scholarship. Get out of his house.”

“How… how old was he?”

“Twelve.” Beck shakes his head and stamps his foot like that’ll scare the demons off. “I go there now to talk to them, let them get out whatever they need to get out, show them how to redirect all those big feelings into sports. Quint deserved better than he got, and I want to make sure the other kids in his situation get what I couldn’t give him.”

I can hear the guilt, feel the anger. “What’s that?”

“Safety. Hope. A chance.”

We sit there in a tense, thudding silence that makes our moment at my front door the other night feel like nothing whatsoever. My skin is crawling with… well, with big feelings I guess. But I don’t have a sport to redirect them into. I just have this. Whatever this is.

“Well, guess I’m out of questions,” I say quietly. “I’ll let you finish getting ready.”

He says nothing.

When Beck finally comes downstairs, he stops on the opposite side of the island from where I’m sitting. “I’m asking you to keep this between us. I don’t need the publicity and the kids don’t, either.”

I just nod. I feel like anything I say will sound stupid and patronizing, so I don’t say anything at all.

He walks past me and pulls a ring of keys off the rack beside the door. “I have a meeting with Coach after I go to the rec center. Don’t wait up for me.”

Then he’s gone.

He can’t be more than a mile or two away when the doorbell rings. I startle way more than is called for. I’m a little jumpy—not just from the weird, sizzling interaction that just caught me by surprise, but also because I got another note yesterday.

Another envelope.

Another warning.

And right now, I would sell my soul for a minute of peace. I’d do heinous things for a few hours of sleep that aren’t interrupted by the ominous sound of a branch against a windowpane or a shadow that moves outside and on my wall inside. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to feel safe.

But I go to the door and look out the peephole.

Thank God.

It’s Dixon. He’s holding a couple cups of coffee in one hand and a white pastry bag. I’d bet my paycheck that he’s brought the requested chocolate croissant, too.

When I pull this monster of wood and metal open, he smiles and holds up the goodies. “Good morning.”

I can smell the chocolatey goodness inside that bag. “Come in.” He walks past me and I shove the door shut, then re-arm the security system.

“I don’t know how to thank you for helping me with this. I had an assistant, but apparently, she wasn’t interested in hard work.” He shrugs. “Beck struck gold when he found you.”

I don’t tell him that I found Beck, or, more accurately, that I found Viv by accident and she put me here. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. I’m here now and this job is going to save my life. That’s what matters.

We eat the croissants and chat about the team. He’s giving me a rundown on the personal lives of all the players. “Nico is married, has about twenty kids.”

I laugh. “Twenty?”

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