Page 68 of Blindside Sinner

Adrian nods in agreement. “When you were face down on the ice, she was scared shitless. She’s not just a good one; she’s a great one.”

I want to argue, but how can I? They’re right. I should have been nicer. The shit with my old man is my problem, not hers, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on her. She deserves better than the worst of me.

But right now, I’m more interested in the fact that she was scared. Not to say I’mhappyshe was scared, but you don’t get scared unless you care.

It’s been a while since I had someone in my corner who cares if anything happened to me.

I’m not sure I know what to do with that. So I don’t do much. I sit and watch Adrian and Dix play video games. My phone rings with another call, but I silence it without looking.

Lose my number, old man.

That was my parting shot when I hung up on him. If I’m being honest, I’ve been dying to tell him that since I was twenty-one, starting for the Seattle Wave, scoring goals and making headlines, and he couldn’t have cared less that I was even still drawing breath.

No, before then—since I was eighteen, en route to winning the Hobey Baker Award as the best collegiate hockey player in the country, and he no-showed the ceremony to tell me I was worthless.

Before that, even—since I was ten and he spat in my face that he wished I was dead so he could start over with another son.

Lose my number, old man.

I wish he had. My life might’ve turned out different.

“I should apologize to Sloan.” I say it out loud as if to try it on for size. Then again, more confident this time. “I should apologize to Sloan.”

With a groan, I push myself to my feet. Both Dixon and Adrian look up at me in alarm. “Where you going, man?” they ask.

I ignore them both as I slip out of my bedroom. I have to stagger along using the walls like a crutch because my sense of balance is still a little shaky, but I just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Until I’m through the kitchen, through the den, through the backyard, and rapping on Sloan’s door.

I stand there, one arm planted against the doorframe, waiting with my breath held in my chest for what seems like forever.

I don’t want her involved in my dad’s bullshit. In part, shoving her away from me with the same old tactics is to keep her safe. My old man lurks and hunts and sniffs, and if he smells even a hint of weakness in her, he’ll pounce.

I can’t let that happen to her.

But I can’t live without her, either. So fine. Fuck it. If it’s me and her versus the man who raised me, then I’ll take those odds. I can’t lose with her by my side and I’ll die before I let him lay a single fucking finger on her.

Sound from within shakes me out of my thoughts. Footsteps. The deadbolt is pulled back, the handle turns, and then the door opens.

But only an inch. The chain remains fastened in place. Through the gap, I can see the tiniest sliver of Sloan’s face. A lock of dark hair. A dark, angry eye, rimmed with red like she’s been crying.

“What do you want?” she croaks.

“I just wanted to say I’m?—”

She slams the door shut without waiting to hear what I came to say.

35

SLOAN

Weeks pass. Beck eventually goes back to skating with the team and I go back to driving him to practices, but the rides are silent and uncomfortable. We don’t talk about what happened.

Today, they have a game, so the team has an afternoon skate and then a meeting until game time.

But I’m up at the crack of dawn because I have to deliver my payment to the Bloodhound.

Seattle is busy at all hours of the day and night. But right now, where I’m headed, there aren’t so many cars. Not so many cameras. Not so many prying eyes, looking to see a terrible man doing terrible things under the cover of darkness.

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