Page 14 of Sin Bin

She was tempted to pretend she loved hockey to score some brownie points. But she knew her cover would be blown the minute Dirk started asking her questions. She could count on one hand the number of things she knew about hockey. Before the game, she’d looked up the Rebels’ star players so she would at least know their names and positions. Logan played right wing and was the youngest member of the starting lineup. His stats read like gibberish to her, but he was supposed to be one of the best players in the league. She was super proud of him.

“We’re pretty excited about our chances this year,” Dirk was saying. “We’ve already clinched a playoff berth, but we’re in a tight race with Nashville to win the division and secure home ice advantage.”

Meadow nodded, nibbling on a crab Rangoon.

“Is this your first hockey game?” Dirk asked.

She nodded and smiled, trying not to talk with her mouth full.

“Do you watch hockey?”

Is this a trick question? If I say no, will you hire someone else?

“Um, I’ve seen a few games.” It wasn’t a lie. She’d caught some of Logan’s games on television. She didn’t understand the rules of hockey, but she admired the players’ skill and athleticism on the ice. The way they glided effortlessly across the slippery surface was like high-octane choreography.

One of the other executives wandered over and plopped into the empty chair beside Meadow. She couldn’t remember his name, only that he headed the company’s game development division. He looked like a Silicon Valley tech geek in a T-shirt and jeans with glasses perched on his nose.

He grinned crookedly at her. “Dirk says you went to astronomy summer camp when you were a kid. How’d you end up becoming a social worker?”

Meadow smiled. She was used to the question. “I wanted to help people.”

“Admirable.” He didn’t sound terribly impressed. “I’ve always thought the world could use more astronomers.”

“If it helps,” Dirk humorously interjected, “she belongs to an astronomy club.”

“Really?” Tech Exec gave Meadow an appraising perusal. It was the look some dudebros gave her when they were trying to decide where she rated on the “hot nerd girl” scale.

Dirk intervened, drawing her attention away from his inappropriate colleague. “Logan Brassard grew up in Las Vegas,” he said teasingly. “Ever met him before?”

Before she could respond, a loud cheer went up from the crowd. She turned to watch as the Rebels and Boston Bruins skated onto the ice for pregame warmups.

Her heart did a crazy lurch the moment she spotted Logan. He was number sixty-eight. It gave her a thrill to see him in his black-and-gold jersey with Brassard printed in big gold letters across his back.

As she stared at him on the JumboTron, she had a flashback to the day she’d overheard him arguing with Mr. Tavárez, one of the group home counselors. Logan hadn’t wanted to play hockey, but Mr. T had adamantly insisted. It was the best thing he could have ever done for Logan.

The two teams were skating around the ice, stretching and shooting pucks at the net. Meadow’s gaze followed Logan as he went through the pregame warmups. Although she hadn’t seen him in fifteen years, she could tell something was off about him tonight. He radiated an edgy restlessness that she could feel three levels up from the ice.

The JumboTron zeroed in on Hunter Duchene skating over to Logan. He was number forty-three and had a C on his jersey that identified him as the team captain. He was just as tall and broad as Logan, wavy dark hair showing under his helmet.

He stood in front of Logan, giving him what appeared to be a pep talk. Logan was nodding, but the tight set of his jaw suggested he didn’t like what his captain was saying. He might be all grown up now, but he still had that dark streak of rebelliousness Meadow remembered so well.

She definitely needed to stay away from him. For her own good.

When warmups were over, the two teams went back to their locker rooms to get ready for the game. It wasn’t long before they returned.

Watching the Rebels’ introduction in person was even more exciting than watching it on TV. Meadow grinned as she took it all in—the pounding rock music, the dancing laser beams, the video montage playing on the giant scoreboard. The crowd was in a cheering, clapping, foot-stomping frenzy. When the star players were announced, women screamed like they were at a rock concert. Meadow half expected to see panties tossed onto the ice.

The game started shortly afterward. The Rebels got on the scoreboard first when Viggo Sandström beat two defenders to bury the puck in the back of the net.

The suite’s floor shook as the crowd roared. Dirk and the others slapped high fives and joined the celebratory chants of, “Sandstorm, Sandstorm, Sandstorm!”

Meadow grinned as she slipped out of her jacket, settling in for the long haul.

The action on the ice was thrilling, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Logan. She was mesmerized by his power, agility and quickness—the way he spun and stopped on a dime, switching directions to chase down opponents and take the puck. He was playing super aggressively, pushing and shoving and getting into little skirmishes along the boards. He seemed particularly annoyed with a player named Brad Marchand. They kept jawing back and forth, both clearly spoiling for a fight.

Halfway through the first period, Logan received a high-sticking penalty for whacking a different Boston player with his stick. Pissed off at the call, he got up in the referee’s face and began arguing his case.

Meadow watched anxiously as the team captain skated over to talk some sense into Logan. When Logan ignored him, Hunter grabbed a fistful of his jersey and tried to pull him away. Logan impatiently shook him off and went right back to yelling at the ref. He towered over the poor man, hulking and huge.

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