Page 130 of Blindside Sinner

And before you rush to judgment, know this: it’s not the Wave stadium or the practice arena. It’s not anywhere she’s been before, because taking her to those places is close to meaningless. This place, though… this place means something. The squiggly, swallowed-a-butterfly feeling got ten times worse when the thought of going here crossed my mind.

That’s how I knew it was right.

“Beck?” Sloan asks. I damn near had a heart attack when she came downstairs in that simple little black dress with her hair cascading down over one bare shoulder. It took my best effort not to gawk at her on the drive over—mostly because every time I glanced in her direction, I got a surge of blood to my nether regions and it became extremely challenging to think, much less operate a motor vehicle.

“Mm?”

“Where are we?”

I park the car in front of what looks for all intents and purposes like an abandoned slaughterhouse. “You’ll see.”

To her everlasting credit, she doesn’t ask any more questions. She takes my hand when I come around to help her out of the car, and she clings to it as we walk inside. Lenny left the door open for me when I texted him that I wanted to swing by. It’s the middle of the week, so there’s no one else here.

I flick on the lights. They hum to life, two by two, groaning as they do like they’re pissed about being woken up. And when they’re all on, there it is.

Home.

“This is where I learned to skate,” I tell her as my gut churns faster and harder. “This is where I learned to love hockey. How to put your gear on and go fast and stop hard and shoot and check and fight and all that stuff. When things were bad at home, this is where I came. If it weren’t for this place, I wouldn’t be who I am. Wouldn’t bewhereI am. This place is everything to me.”

Sloan squeezes my hand. I can feel her looking at me, but I still don’t meet her gaze. Not yet. “It’s perfect,” she murmurs in a reverent whisper that makes my heart clench.

I look out over the ice. It’s a lot smaller than I remember it being. Of course, the last time I’d played here, I was fourteen. In high school, when I hit my growth spurt and really started getting good, I’d switched to the All-Star Skating Emporium uptown. That’s where my awards, my trophies, my signed autographs still live.

But my best memories are here.

“First goal I ever scored was right over there.” I point to the far end of the ice. I can remember it like it happened yesterday. “I took a center ice pass from this kid named Joey Hamilton, and skated down there like I was Wayne Gretzky.”

“Who?”

“He’s… a hockey player. The Great One.”

She smiles up at me as she slides an arm around my waist. “I think you’re pretty great.”

I chuckle. “No, that’s his?—”

She giggles and it’s probably the cutest sound I’ve ever heard a woman make. “I know, Beck. I’m just messing with you. Even people who don’t like hockey know who Wayne Gretzky is.” But she gives me another squeeze. “Are we doing a highlight reel of your life before you became the best big thing?”

“Something like that. I’m not really sure, to be honest. I just… wanted to show this to you. I don’t actually know why. Maybe it was a dumb idea. Maybe I?—”

She squeezes my hand again, and when she talks, it’s still in that hush, like how you’d talk in a cathedral you thought was sacred and beautiful. “It’s not dumb, Beck. It’s perfect. It’s you.”

She lets go of me and walks to the boards to peer out over the rink. There’s nothing painted into the ice, the net moorings are rusty as hell, and the bleachers are cobbled together from old two by fours. It’s forgettable in every sense of the word.

But this place is the only real home I ever had.

“No highlight reel. I brought you here because I love this place.” I walk to stand beside her. “Kissed my first girl behind the bleachers right over there.”

“I hate her already.” She smiles slyly and cocks a brow. “Any other firsts I should know about?”

I know what she’s asking and I am really starting to love that tone she takes when she asks a question that shouldn’t make her jealous but does. “You mean did I sink more than a puck here? ‘Fraid not. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. I was quite the stud in middle school.”

She laughs. “Do tell.”

“What I didn’t tell you was that almost immediately after I kissed her, I tried for second base and she slapped me. Then her brother took me out back and beat my ass black-and-blue in the parking lot.” I grin. “After that, I learned to fight. I figured it was part of the dating process.”

“Well, lucky for you, Mr. Daniels, I don’t have any brothers who will care if you take your shot. Who knows? You might even score.”

I cage her in against the boards, her back to my front. “I love when you use hockey words. Makes me hot.”

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