Page 83 of Blindside Sinner

“Nice.”

“Oh, you’re going to love this one. What do you call a urologist on TikTok?” A second later, he claps his hands together. “A dick doc!”

They only get worse. He has limericks. He has stories. We’re not even through the appetizer course yet.

“A guy walked in the other day and told me I was the only person he knew who saw more dicks than his ex-wife.” His laugh is loud and high-pitched. I take a look around because people are staring.

God help us all.

“Excuse me for a second. I have to powder my nose.”

I walk away from the table and straight to the hallway where the bathroom is. I’m honestly considering sneaking out the back door, but instead, I step inside the lobby part of the bathroom—this place is lush, decorated with a damask-covered sofa and plush pink carpeting—and dial Cassie.

When she doesn’t answer, I leave a message. “Cass, it’s me. If you get this in the next ten minutes, I need ahelp-I’ve-fallen-and-can’t-get-upexcuse to get out of this date. I’m begging you!”

I dial Monroe and leave the same message. One of them will call.

I hope.

When I walk back to the table, our entrees have arrived and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to scarf down the whole thing in two bites just to get this over with.

But as I pass the bar, the game is on the TV. I’m tempted to walk in and watch from there. Instead, I have a new idea.

When I’m at the edge of the table, I smile at what’s-his-name. “Any chance we could switch seats?” His has a view of the TV at the bar. “There’s a draft.”

“I could give you my coat.” He starts to shrug out of it, but I hold up a hand.

“No, no, please. I’m a huge klutz, and if I spill anything on that beautiful coat, I’d never be able to forgive myself. Just seats would be amazing. I’d owe you for life.”

When he nods and smiles, a short sigh of relief slips out.

We switch seats, and then he hands me my plate of food and I exchange it for his. Just like that, the date gets infinitely better.

Dr. Love has moved onto longform stories now and the Wave are losing by two, but then Beck has a breakaway. He skates through the neutral zone, winds up to take the shot, and fans it. The crowd at the stadium groans but a guy in the bar slams his hand against the brass rail that runs the length of the counter.

“They should trade that son of a bitch. All he does is drink and screw. When is the last time he scored a fucking goal?” The guy’s drunk, his words slurring into one another, so I don’t pounce.

Yet.

I shovel in a forkful of scalloped potatoes. Doctor Comedy is still telling jokes so I’m good as long as I fake a laugh every once in a while. But I never stop watching the game. I whoop once when Dix scores and again when Beck shoots and doubles the tally.

I kind of want to go buy the heckler a drink and remind him that Beck Daniels is a superstar.

Instead, I sit and continue to watch the game.

Against all odds, I’m enjoying my date.

42

BECK

We’re behind again. It’s partly my fault. I gifted one of the St. Louis players a perfect pass, just planted it right on his stick for him to rip home and go up one on us.

It’s because I’m distracted. All I can think about is Sloan in her short little skirt and that sweater that hugs her ribs. All I can think about is some fucking loser M.D., daydreaming over calamari bites about how good it would feel to push that skirt up around her waist.

Now, I’m on the bench with a raging hard-on thanks to her. My choices are to fake an injury or hope that all the pads over my dick hide the fact that I can’t stop thinking about fucking my assistant.

By the time I’m back on the ice for my next shift, I’m ready to explode. I’ve barely got both skates down before I cross-check one of their guys way too hard.

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