Page 39 of Blindside Sinner

“Good.” I shove off and put some space between us again. “Now, run along so your mommy can check on your booboos.”

“Fuck you, Daniels,” Carter spits.

“Not even in my nightmares, Swanson.”

He ignores me, skating back to his teammates, who look like a mix between uncomfortable and angry. They should be. His actions just signed them up for a trip to hell, at least for the rest of the game.

I look over at Dixon, who gives me a nod that says Nate’s okay, before my eyes track over the crowd. I don’t know why I’m doing it, but there’s something in me that’s searching her out.

And instantly wishing I hadn’t.

Sloan is seated not too far from our bench, but instead of watching the game, she’s texting on her fucking phone. Her lips twitch as she laughs under her breath.

Annoyance ripples under my skin. Why come to the game if she’s just going to text the whole time? Is she texting a guy? Not that I care, but that breaks the celibacy rules. Doesn’t it?

I frown because I’m not sure it does.

That irritates me more than anything.

“You good?” Dix asks, pulling me back to the ice with a careful slap to my shoulder.

“Yep.” I’m not, but I dislike that I’m not fine even more than I dislike Sloan caring more about her phone than my goddamn game.

I shouldn’t care what she does. Idon’tcare.

I wrap all that irritation around me like a cloak, ready to unleash on the next unfortunate Thunderstroke to wander in my way.

For the rest of the game, that’s exactly what I do. A few Portland players make that mistake, but none of them do it more than once. The crunch of pads and the grunts of my victims is music to my ears.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, I’m smiling. We won, despite my spending more than one round in the penalty box after checking Swanson and his buddies into the boards with a vengeance. All because Swanson put his hands where they shouldn’t have been.

He touched one of mine, and I made him regret it every second of every period he played.

Eventually, the Portland coach took him out of the game and I had the pleasure of watching him scowl at me from the bench. Like I said: better luck next time,pendejo.

I also definitely don’t give a shit that every time I looked over, Sloan was on her phone.

When we scored.

When we lost.

When I took a penalty.

When I argued with the ref.

She saw none of it. She just stared at her fucking screen.

It was infuriating.She’sinfuriating. And after the press conference water bottle incident earlier, I’m ready to retaliate.

The thought twists around in my brain until I can’t take it anymore. When we file off the ice and troop past the stands on our way to the locker room, I act on impulse. It’s nothing to lean over just long enough to snatch Sloan’s phone out of her hand on my way by.

“What the hell?” I’m already past her, so I can’t see her face, but her voice is loud and clear as she shrieks behind me. I can taste her irritation, and it tastesgood. “Beck! Give me my phone back.”

I know I don’t have a ton of time, so I’m grateful that her phone’s already unlocked. Just as I’m about to start snooping, a text comes in.

MONROE:*Monroe liked the text, “”We won! Oh, god. The asshole’s head is going to be too big to fit in the bus tomorrow.”

I don’t let myself think for even a second. I just click the thread and start reading.

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