Page 56 of Blindside Sinner

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SLOAN

I watch the games. Every. Last. One. Of. Them. Beck has started dragging me into team meetings so I can take notes on plays, keep track of his end-to-end skate time, and tally up his stats.

Not that there aren’t about twenty cable sports channels who do this very thing, but Beck insists on getting it done the old-fashioned way.

“It’s your job,” he’s said to me multiple times.

“No, my job is keeping you out of trouble,” I inevitably retort.

“Well, if you don’t help me out with this, I’m going to go rob a bank and impregnate a stripper. So your call on which you’d rather deal with: hockey assists or headlines?”

“Asshole” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

I’ve spent so much time going over film the last couple days that if I never see another windup for a slapshot, or a hip check, or a glove save, it might be too soon. I eat, sleep, and breathe hockey. I’m so deep in scouting out the tendencies of the opposing centers for the Wave’s upcoming game against Weston Scott andthe Los Angeles Firebirds that when Dix’s text comes through, I almost don’t look.

How about breakfast this morning? Need to brainstorm for the charity event.

To my eternal surprise, that’s not a euphemism. We’ve seen each other twice in the last week to discuss the poker tournament and he’s stuck to the subject like he’s reading from cue cards.

It’s an off day and so there’s no practice this morning. I check Beck’s online calendar to make sure he doesn’t have any appointments. He has an entry in his calendar that just saysPrivate, and it was added by his account, not mine. It also wasn’t there last time I looked. Hmm. Weird.

I text back,I wouldn’t turn down a chocolate croissant from Besalu.

I leave my phone on the counter and walk into the downstairs office that’s been converted into a makeshift film studio. Half a dozen TVs mounted on the east-facing wall all rigged up to a control box that lets Beck upload and download, speed up and slow down, reverse and fast forward whatever tape he is watching.

He also keeps a glass case filled with his trophies from high school and college, his Sports Entertainment TV Player of the Year trophy, his framed copy of his Sexiest Athlete Alive article. It’s one of those beefcake, bare-chested photos and he sounds like a giant tool in the article, but he’s proud of it.

But the real Beck is nowhere to be found.

The kitchen and backyard also turn up empty. When I finally find him, he’s in the home gym, doing bicep curls on themachine. There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin. His muscles are expanding and contracting with each move.

It’s not hard to see why they voted him the Sexiest Athlete Alive. I mean, if it’s about chiseled muscle and sinew and streaks of sweat rolling down that beautifully broad chest, then sure. It makes sense, I guess. If you’re into that kind of thing.

He looks up and lets go of the machine so that it clatters and the weights drop back into their pile.

“What do you want?” He wipes his face with a towel and my mouth goes dry. I can’t stop watching.

“Um…” I shake the lusty fog off. “You have an appointment in your calendar marked ‘Private.’”

He checks his watch. “Yep. That would be the private one.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“No. I’ll drive myself to this one.” He hangs the towel over one glistening shoulder and struts past me.

I turn and follow. “What is it?”

“You’re like a little gnat, you know that?” He takes the stairs two at a time, so I have to move double-time to keep up. His legs are a smidge longer than mine, it turns out.

“Tell me.”

“None of your business.”

I leap around him and block the entry to his door. “Why won’t you tell me? What is it? Dominatrix? Shrink? Sex therapist to help you understand your urges?”

He shoots me a scowl and tries to reach around me to open the door, but I slide against the wood and he gets a handful of my hip instead. The touch is startling and I can’t help but yelp.

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