Page 2 of Sin Bin

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I gotta get my money!” Logan exclaimed.

“I don’t think so.”

“But I won the fight!”

“Congratulations, slugger. Let’s go.” Mr. T grabbed Logan by the arm and began dragging him across the grassy soccer field toward a white van parked along the curb. “You must have lost your damn mind, sneaking out of the house to meet up with those hoodlums. You know you have hockey practice—”

“I don’t wanna play hockey,” Logan protested.

“Tough shit, carajito. You’re playing.”

“You can’t make me!”

Mr. T stopped suddenly and turned to face Logan. His gray eyes were hard, his expression stern. “Look here, boy. Coach Fulcher runs one of the few youth hockey leagues in Nevada. I had to pull strings to get you a spot on the squirt team—”

“Who asked you to?” Logan shot back. “I never said I wanted to play stupid hockey!”

“Yeah? What else you got going on?” Mr. T jabbed his thumb in the direction of the field. “That little fight club is only gonna land you in jail or the morgue. Is that what you want?”

Logan glared defiantly at the big man.

“Well? Is it?”

Logan glared another moment before dropping his gaze to the front of his sweatshirt. It was splattered with Fisher’s blood. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in less than two weeks, and he knew he was gonna catch hell for it. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about much of anything.

Shaking his head, Mr. T pulled out a handkerchief, grabbed Logan’s hands and started cleaning his bloody knuckles. “You like fighting so much? Hockey’s the perfect sport for you.”

“Hockey’s dumb,” Logan grumbled resentfully. “And nobody plays hockey in Vegas.”

“Maybe not now. But someday we could get a pro hockey team and you could play for them.”

Logan screwed up his face as Mr. T hauled him over to the white van. Instead of opening the sliding back door, he unlocked the passenger door and barked, “Get in.”

Logan clambered up into the front seat and stubbornly folded his arms across his chest.

Mr. T climbed behind the wheel and slammed the door. “Put your seat belt on.”

Logan grudgingly obeyed.

When Mr. T started the engine, a bouncy bachata song poured out of the speakers. Bachata was his favorite kind of music because it reminded him of the islands. Logan couldn’t understand all of the words, but he liked the rhythm. Mr. T said it was because he had a quarter Latin blood.

Mr. T lowered the volume and glanced at Logan. “We have to swing by the house so you can change for practice and grab your gear. I called Coach Fulcher to let him know we’re on our way. He isn’t too happy about you being late to the second practice of the season, but he’s willing to let it slide this time.”

“Why?” Logan grumbled. “’Cause he feels sorry for me? ’Cause I’m an orphan?”

“No, because you’re a good skater and he agrees with me that you have potential. Don’t make him regret taking a chance on you.” Mr. T pulled away from the curb and merged into the afternoon traffic.

Frowning, Logan turned his head to glare out the window. His jaw was throbbing from Fisher’s punch, but that’s not what was bothering him. What was bothering him was that he hadn’t gotten his prize money. He really needed that cash. He’d been saving up to buy a new telescope for Jupiter, a girl who lived at the group home. Her real name was Meadow, but he called her Jupiter because she loved astronomy and was always carrying around a telescope that her parents gave her when she was little.

Last month when Logan got into a fight with another boy at the group home, Jupiter’s telescope got broken. It was an accident, but he’d felt pretty guilty about it—especially after he saw her crying in her room that night. He’d decided right then and there to buy her another telescope. It was the least he could do. Now he just had to find a way to sneak out again to get his money from Wyatt.

Mr. T stopped at a red light and looked at Logan. “Listen, mijo. I know life has dealt you a crappy hand. You’ve been through more shit than most adults I know, and you definitely deserve a lucky break. That’s why I signed you up for hockey. You might not believe this, but playing hockey could be your ticket to a better life. If you work hard and prove yourself, you might even make it to the pros one day. Just imagine that, Logan. Imagine yourself playing in the NHL, making millions and winning championships. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

“I guess.” Logan stared down at his bruised knuckles, mulling over Mr. T’s words. “I don’t think I’ll be good at it.”

“Of course you will,” Mr. T said with a grin. “You were born in Canada and your old man is Canadian. Hockey’s practically in your blood.”

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