Page 5 of Sin Bin

Pardonme.

Andre whips back around to face off against Gwen. “It’s myjobto scare people,” hegrowls.

“Correction,” Gwen says, lifting her finger like she’s checking the wind direction, “the Blades hired you to intimidate other hockey players. On the ice. Not the media, offtheice.”

She does have a point. Most players ham up to the cameras after a game, or, at least, they’re reasonablypolite.

Andre Beaumont is not “most” hockey players. Only the bravest of souls dare approach him in the locker room, and those numbers grow fewer by the game, based on what I’ve heard trickling down the grapevine. Back when I handled his PR, he’d had a similar, snarly disposition, but he cleaned up the attitude whenever I laid downthelaw.

“So the fact that I don’t smile is a problem.” Andre’s voice is hard,surly.

Gwen’s bright smile cracks, just enough to see that she’s trying desperately not to wince. “That’s oneproblem. . .”

“And theother?”

“Women.”

Silence descends over the room, tense and oppressive. Gwen resolutely holds Andre’s gaze, though I swear her right eyetwitches.

Slowly, as though tasting the word “women,” and finding it repulsive, Andre mutters, “So, what? I date. Is that acrime?”

“Frequently,” Gwen interjects, still standing strong, bless her heart. “You datefrequently.”

This time, there’s no mistaking the way Andre looks at me over his shoulder. His dark eyes glitter with frustration, and his full mouth flattens into a thin line. Without taking his gaze off me, he tells Gwen, “I hadn’t heard that it’s a crime to test the waters.” His gaze dips to my mouth and I fight off a shiver of unwanted desire. “Sometimes it’s not what youexpected.”

This time, it’smyjaw thatslackens.

The . . .the. . .jerk!

Blood centers in my forehead, making it pulse like it’s under siege from a bloody stampede of wild elephants. Letting my fury carry me, I meet his gaze and sweetly reply, “That’s what happens when you take too many dips in the ocean, Mr. Beaumont. You choke onsaltwater.”

Walter slaps a closed fist to hischest.

Gwen lets out a scandalized, tinklinglaugh.

Andre and I exchange a look that can only be categorized as pure snark. If “snark” had a look,Imean.

I stare him down, refusing to look away until he breaks eye contact first. Back when I was at—ahem—my prime, my clients fondly called me the “barracuda.” Like the sharp-toothed beasts roaming the Amazon, I rarely stepped down from a fight. I learned from the very best—my mother, who, despite raising me on her own, worked three jobs and never failed to put food on the table for the twoofus.

I count out the seconds that it takes for Andre to glance away. Nine. But glance away he does, and that slight measure of victory sends a thrill dancing down my spine. He may have worn me down a year ago, toppling over my defenses and warming up my girl parts, as well as my heart, but nolonger.Nope.

I wouldn’t sleep with Andre Beaumont again if he were the last man onearth.

Let me amend that: Iwouldsleep with Andre Beaumont if he were the last man on earth, but only because I feel a very ingrained sense of duty to the world to continue procreation and to not let ourspeciesdie.

You’rewelcome.

The sound of Mr. Collins faking a hacking fit jars me back to the present. He points at Gwen, as if telling her to take the reins and handle the misbehavingchild.

Her eyes drift up to the ceiling. I wonder if she’s praying forstrength.

After long seconds, Gwen says, “We’re aware of your slipping sponsorships. Last week alone you lost both Nike and Gatorade. That’s a very big deal, especially for someone already coming off a big scandal.” Thankfully, I’m not wearing a scarlet A on my shirt, and no one looks at me. “Whether you choose to admit it or not, your attitude might not be an issue on the ice, but it is absolutely affecting your game play off of it. Unless you’re interested in losing every sponsor you have currently, you’re going to have to do what we suggest, Mr.Beaumont.”

This time, he doesn’t even bother tocorrecther.

Although he’s still presenting me with his back, I swear that I can see the wheels turning in his handsome head. Does he realize where I fit into this equation? That, more likely than not, he’s stuck with me . . . maybeindefinitely?

The irony would kill me if it weren’t for the fact that I’m too busy staving off thepanic.

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