Page 80 of Blindside Sinner

Now, I don’t have a choice and every minute I wait makes things that much worse. Still, I take an extra second with the Sloan in the mirror, trying to talk some courage into myself.

I shouldn’t care if he’s mad. He’s a job. Nothing more.

But no matter how many times I say those words, they don’t feel true.

His hand on my hip.

His scent in my nose.

Small and mighty and safe and beautiful and seen.

Finally, when courage isn’t coming and I’m running out of pep for my talk, I pick up my bag and march across the yard to the main house.

I throw open the door—and promptly run right into Beck’s broad chest.

“Oof,” I grunt, very unladylike.

He doesn’t so much as stumble. He steadies me with a hand on each shoulder, but when he realizes what he’s doing, he drops them like I scalded him and steps back.

His eyes skitter up and down my body. I’m wearing a flared black skirt, white cashmere sweater, a pair of sensible wedges. If he thinks I look good, the only sign of it is the subtlest raise of one eyebrow.

It’s a silent question, too.What’s allthisfor?

Here it is. The moment I’ve been dreading. We’re living in the in-between space where things are tentatively good, tentatively normal. But the second I tell him why I’m all dressed up, hair straightened, we’re going right back to the bad place.

I wish I could tell him I just wanted to look good for his game. I wish he’d look at me and make me feel all those things again. Small and might and?—

Snap out of it, Sloan. Stop being a baby. Rip the Band-Aid.

“I have that date tonight,” I explain. “The one from the auction.”

The words hang in the air like poison gas. His eyebrow descends back down and locks into place. His whole face looks chiseled from stone.

“It’s game night,” he rumbles. It might be the longest sentence he’s said to me all week.

“I know, I know. But we have a road trip coming and I didn’t want to have to deal with it when we get back. I want to get it over with. I’m sorry.”

I hope he can hear how much I’m not looking forward to going.

“You’re sorry. You’re…sorry.” He says it again, like it’s a new word to him. Then his face hardens one more notch. “You—no, you know what? I don’t care what you do. Let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just turns and storms out to the garage.

I blink back a frustrated tear I don’t want and follow him out.

I’m surprised to see Beck getting in the SUV. When I slide behind the wheel, he looks over. “I figured you’d want the nice big backseat in case things go well.”

I clench my back teeth hard enough to shatter them. “He’s a doctor. Probably has an apartment if we need one.”

Beck nods. “Let me know about the view.”

I jab the start button and rev the engine when it roars to life.

I don’t try to talk to him again all the way to the arena. There isn’t a point while he’s being so vicious and intentionally hurtful.

He stares out the window and doesn’t speak. Not even when I sit so long at a green light that the car behind me blows its horn. Not even when I whip into the lot and he has to hold onto theoh-shithandle over the door to keep from crashing into me.

As soon as I pull to a stop at the players’ entrance, he is out of the car. I slam the car into park and jump out, too.

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