Page 126 of Blindside Sinner

I scowl. He has no idea what it’s been like. How worried I’ve been, the sleep I’ve lost over all of this.

“Dix is right,” agrees Colin. “You look like you just swallowed your tongue. Spill, man—what’s going on?”

I grimace again. We are not the kind of friends who talk feelings. We talk ice time, stats, scores, who has the hardest slap shot—me—who’s faster on the ice—also me—and who can drink the most and still skate in a straight line on one foot—once again, yours truly.

What we don’t do is discuss who has his panties in a knot over a woman.

“I have to get my head out of my ass,” I murmur. I’m talking more to myself than to any of them. “I have to stop partying, stop drinking. I have to be there for her.”

Dix laughs. “You hear that, boys? We’re losing our legend. Gonna have to find a new hero to worship.”

I shake my head. I know he’s teasing, but words are pouring out of me faster than I can process or filter. “Sloan needs better. She deserves more out of the man she’s with. And make no mistake: she’s with me.” I don’t say it for their benefit, but for mine. Because maybe I need to hear it. “I have to be better.”

“Better? What does that mean?”

“Love her. Cherish her. Worship her. Protect her. Be the guy she can count on.”

Colin and Adrian are looking at me like I’ve sprouted a third arm out of my chest, but Dixon has the soft look of a friend who recognizes when his brother-in-arms needs quiet support. Head tilted to the side, eyes forgiving, blessedly silent and serious for once.

“The good timesandbad times guy, you mean,” he says.

“Yeah. That.”

I shoot a glance at her. She’s smiling with her friends, laughing at something that one of them said. All I want is to go over there, haul her against me, and tell her that I’m the guy. That I’m always going to bethe guy.

Fuck. This is bad. All of this not drinking and not whoring, not putting my dick anywhere it doesn’t belong has turned me into…this. Made me soft. Weak.

I picture my old man and wonder what he would think about it.

But then a miracle happens: I realize that I don’t care.

Fuck my dad. And if my friends don’t get it, fuck them, too. Fuck Coach if he refuses to understand and fuck Viv if she insists on getting in the way. Fuck the paparazzi and the fans and anyone else in the world, living or dead, who wants to get in between me and my woman.

I’ll be what she needs.

And I’ll never, ever let her go.

“Alright then.” Dix’s voice pulls me away from those thoughts as he nods at me. “We’re here to help. What do you need?”

He looks at the others expecting some form of agreement—a nod, a glance at least—but Colin’s fried onion blossom has arrived and he’s elbow deep in sweet chipotle sauce. Adrian is eye-fucking the waitress. That’s okay; they’ll kick in some help another time.

I shrug. “I have no fucking idea.”

“No man ever does,” Dixon assures me. “You’ll figure it out, though. I have faith. Some things are too fated to fail.”

63

SLOAN

Another letter. It’s my third in as many weeks. Like the others, I don’t open it.

I slide it into my pocket as Beck rounds the corner into the foyer. I need to track down whoever is sending them, but I wouldn’t have the first idea where to look. It isn’t like the envelopes have a return address or any clue as to who’s writing this crap and sending it to me.

I could probably ask one of the security guys if they know someone who could do some digging, but I don’t want to involve anyone who might inadvertently or advertently mention it to Beck.

It isn’t like I can ask him for help, either. If he sees one, he’ll go ballistic. I’ll never get a moment alone again. He’ll be standing next to me when I pee, holding out neatly folded toilet paper like a permanent bathroom attendant.

Sure, there’s always the police, but the cops have been no help. Even the insurance investigator hasn’t found anything.

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