Page 61 of Blindside Sinner

Then the puck drops, and the game begins.

I win the faceoff and drop it back to Dixon behind me. Reese and I immediately get tangled up, though. He shoves me, I shove him, then it descends into a blur of punches and elbows.

I smash his face with my right fist and he growls, and we’re both ready to drop the gloves two seconds into the game. But I hear Coach Walker yell from the bench. “Quit fuckin’ around and get your ass in the game, Daniels!”

When Coach threatened me with the trade, he included my penalty minutes in the list of bannable offenses. I haven’t spent any time in the box since then and I’m not about to let Reese get under my skin tonight.

So I skate away from Dalton. “Always knew you were soft!” he yells after me.

The game has moved on without us. There’s action down on our end, so I race in to break it up and take a shoulder check into the glass. The crowd roars. When I lift my arm for a change so that the second line comes onto the ice, I zoom to the bench and get a drink.

I’m off my game right now. I need to decompress, recompose, get my head in the action and stop worrying about Sloan—the “babe behind the bench,”as Reese called her. I try to concentrateon the crowd and let their energy seep into me. That always works its magic. They’re cheering, screaming, chanting. The organ plays our song and the T-shirt cannon is loud behind me.

This is my world,I remind myself.My safe place.

I keep my eyes on the puck as one of Dalton’s teammates—Dante something, I think—shoots. The puck takes off like a rocket, wobbles in over Nate’s left shoulder, and dings the back of the net.

Bulls 1, Wave 0.

Dammit.

It’s been the bare minimum of a breather, but I’m already climbing over the boards because there’s going to be another faceoff, and I’m going to take it. Dalton skates past our bench and blows a kiss at Sloan.

And just like that, something inside of me snaps.

By the time I hit the ice, Dalton is on the far side of the rink. He’s trying to corral a puck against the boards, so he has his back to me. I dig in deep and pick up speed. Faster and faster. I’m gonna lay the motherfucker out, a realWelcome to the big leaguesmoment for the young pup. I’m zoning in.

Two more pushes.

One more.

Then, out of nowhere, I see motion in the corner of my eye.

I turn just in time to see one of Dalton’s teammates, a nasty son of a bitch named Bastian Duverger, flying in to crosscheck me. It’s like getting hit with a runaway train. I smash into the ice face-first and my brain rattles around in my skull.

The whole collision probably only takes a half-second, but to me, it’s in slow motion. I feel every sensation individually.

The cold. The pain. The explosion inside my head.

Tomorrow, I’m going to feel every bit of it in every cell in my body.

I’m on my back, trying to figure out which way is up, when Dixon’s face appears above me. Three of them, actually. A triple mirage of Dix.

“Fuck, Beck, you alright?” he asks, his brow wrinkled with genuine concern. He drops to one knee and helps the trainer unclip my helmet.

“What happened?” I croak.

“You took a hit.” Our athletic trainer is the one who answers. He turns my head left and right then holds it up—which is good because I don’t think I can do it myself. The black is closing in and the throbbing in my head is turning into one long note of agony.

“Fuck yeah, I did.” I look at him and now there are three Doc Mildridges in my line of sight. “Hurts, too.”

“Beck! Beck, stay with me.”

“H-help me up.” I lift my arm and they hoist me to my feet, Doc on one side and Dix on the other. We start the slow trek back to the bench as the crowd undulates like the whole world is rippling.

“I’m still pissed at you,” I mutter to Dixon on my right.

Then my toe catches on the ice.

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