Page 38 of Blindside Sinner

With another pointed glare, she steps away. I use the excuse of cleaning off my lap to readjust my junk that definitely isn’t hard because of Sloan’s attitude, nope, not at all.

Dixon takes one look at me and snorts. “You are so fucked.”

I’m not, but I want to be. Jesus, thinking of what a hellion Sloan would be in bed only makes things worse. So I pretend not to hear him.

Because if there’s anything I know, it’s that chemistry like ours is explosive in every arena, including the bedroom.

But Dixon isn’t right. I’m not going after Sloan.

I know Vivian. She’d have laid down the law with her little protégé:No fucking the client.It’s a rule that V herself breaks all the time, but Sloan wouldn’t know that. She’d assume that if she got caught with me, her job would be in jeopardy.

She’d be right.

But is that the right way to play things? I could fuck her and get her out of my life and out of my house, but how would it affect my chances of staying in Seattle? Would Hank trade me?

The truth is, I don’t know.

And that’s the only reason I decide to keep my dick away from Sloan.

I can’t mess up her life if there’s a chance it’s going to implode mine, too. I’ll have to think of something else.

20

BECK

The roar of the crowd feels like home, even though we’re not in Seattle anymore.

Portland’s fans are loyal to their home team, but I still see some blue and green Wave jerseys in the stadium. And when those fans see me, they freak out.

I turn my attention to the boys across the ice. The Thunderstrokes, while relatively new to the league, are fiercer than I gave them credit for. The owner poached more than a few seasoned players for the new team and we’ve got our work cut out for us.

Good thing winning’s in my blood.

We’re nearly halfway through the first period when the Thunderstroke’s right wing, a veteran named Carter Swanson, shoots the puck. Our goalie, a rookie named Nate Torres, catches it clean. By all rights, Carter ought to peel off and mind his own business.Better luck next time, pal.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, Swanson goes feral. In a heartbeat, he’s crowding Nate like he’s going to take a swing at him.

Un-fucking-acceptable.Everyone in the stands knows you don’t touch the goalie. Everyone in this league knows you don’t touchmygoalie. It’s practically a death sentence.

A single glance at Dixon and we’re both on the move.

We bookend Swanson, letting Nate glide away. Dixon follows to ensure Nate’s protected in case the Thunderstrokes decide to make this a team effort.

Meanwhile, I crowd Swanson until he’s pressed from hip to head against the boards. My stick holds him in place like a bar across his chest.

“You ever lay a hand on my fucking goalie again,” I snarl, “you better be ready to lose every fucking finger. You feel me?”

Swanson’s glare moves over my shoulder. When he sees who’s flanking me, though, that defiant smirk crumbles.

I don’t have to look to know who it is. Colin and Adrian are a wall of muscle behind me, underscoring everything I say.

Carter tries to push me off, so I shove him back again. “Do I need to repeat myself, shit-for-brains, or do you understand? Because if I have to repeat myself, I’m going to take a pound of flesh while I do.”

Swanson doesn’t want to agree. I can see it in his eyes that he’d rather kick my ass than listen. But despite this being his town, the ice is my turf and he knows it.

Finally, he tilts his chin down in an irritated nod. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.”

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