Page 67 of Blindside Sinner

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BECK

Adrian looks at me in disgust as he and Dixon step into my room. “Bro, what the fuck was that? We just walked in, wanted to come check on you, and heard some crazy shit.” He glances at the splattered wall and his eyebrows jump up on his forehead. “Did you really just throw coffee at your assistant?”

I shake my head. “She’s just…”

Infuriating. Incredible. Tempting. Terrifying.

She’s all the fucking words.

And it’s killing me that I hurt her.

But she doesn’t know what happened while she was gone.

“I thought you guys were on the road to getting along,” Dixon agrees. “What we just heard was… not that.”

“Fuck off, Dix. It’s none of your business.”

“Dude, Beck… what’s going on with you?” But he knows. He always knows. “Is it… your old man?”

I don’t have to answer.

But that’s answer enough. “Why do you care what he thinks?” Dix is leaning against the doorframe, staring at me.

“She went to get breakfast and my old man called. He saw the game.”

“Did he give you hell?” Dix has been my friend from the time we were old enough to skate in a straight line. We played pee-wees and juniors together, we got drafted together, we did everything together.

So he knows better than anyone else what a monster my father is.

“‘Hell’ isn’t the word. He said it’s time to ‘quit playing games’ and ‘take my place at the head of the table.’” I can’t believe I’m giving voice to this shit myself. But I can’t stop. The words pour out. “He told me to ‘stop running from what I’m supposed to be.’”

“Ah, the old ‘take your place at the head of the table’ speech. If I’ve heard it once…” He ambles over and sits in one of the armchairs in the corner. Adrian slides down to a seat on the floor, back against the wall.

I’m still stuck in bed, replaying the conversation that ruined the little bubble of happiness I was stupid enough to think would last forever. It took my dad fifteen minutes to slice that shit wide open. It hurt more than anything from last night.

“He started by asking how many stitches it took to close up the stupid when I smacked my face on the ice.”

I’m not telling them because I need their sympathy. I just need to get it out.

“Well?” Adrian jokes. “How many did it take?”

Dixon makes a big show of squinting at me. “Looks like six to me. Maybe seven.”

I give them both the middle finger. “Screw you guys. I need better friends.”

Then Adrian gets his somber face on. “I bet Sloan could be a good friend.”

“If you let her,” Dix chimes in.

I grimace and roll my eyes at the two of them teaming up on me. “Suddenly, I’m dealing with the Abbott and Costello of pro hockey. Did you guys come here just to piss me off?”

“Why? Is it working?” Dixon pokes. “Doesn’t matter either way, really. We came to give Sloan some time off from babysitting duty, so you’re stuck with us until the doc says you’re allowed to be by yourself or until Sloan decides she can put up with you again.”

“Although you probably have a better chance of seeing ice time before you see her.” Adrian jerks his thumb toward the door Sloan escaped through earlier.

“Unless she waits until you’re asleep and then kicks your ass,” adds Dixon. “Which, to be clear, would be totally justified. I’m just saying, man… You should be nicer to her. She’s one of the good ones.”

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