Page 37 of Sin Bin

Since I see no way out of saying no, and I’d also like to keep my job as long as possible, I shrug. “Sure, ofcourse.”

Gwen cuts a swift glance to the door. Apparently satisfied that no one is eavesdropping, she tells me, “I totally made the mistake of dating one of the head guys in the Blades’ hockey administration. The General Manager, actually. And since he’s definitely going to be theretonight. . .”

“You want me there as a shield?” I throw outbluntly.

Her arms lift in a delicate shrug. “Think of it as being each other’s body armor. We can lend each other some much-neededsupport.”

Since Gwen James reminds me of a dolled-up piranha, it’s probably not a bad idea to have her around. Plus, if she gets to know me a little better, perhaps this stupid trial run will become a permanent gig. The thought of obtaining other clients besides the NHL’s bad boy enforcer brings a smile tomyface.

“All right, let’sdothis.”

One hour later,I’m regretting my lifedecisions.

Gwen is certainly a body shield, specifically in the literal sense. The woman is practically glued tomyside.

We’re barely through the door to the owner’s box before Gwen bumps my shoulder with hers, like we’re suddenly best girlfriends. “Do you see him?” she whispers, except that it’s not really a whisper. I’m not sure she knowshowto whisper. Her hand leaves my arm to point at a group of men in the far corner of the gray-carpeted room. “Right there. The one in theblacksuit.”

Ahem. They’re all wearing blacksuits.

My gaze scours the men, finally stopping on a decent-looking guy with coppery hair and a friendly smile. He looks wealthy, so probablyGwen’stype.

“Is that him?” I give him a little nod with my chin. Then I look down, and . . . the man is wearing vibrant redshoes.

“What?” Gwen shakes her head adamantly, then gives me a crushed look. “Absolutely not. Do I look like the kind of girl who’d go for aginger?”

I blink. “Aren’t you aginger?”

Gwen clucks her tongue. “Girl,” she says in that way people do when they’re about to school you on life, “it’s called hair dye. I’m not a natural redhead.Anyway, you didn’t hear that from me.Also, there are different classifications of redheads. There’s me, and I have averydeep cherry hue, and then there’s a carrot top.” Her blue eyes land on the man we’ve been talking about, and he must sense us watching him, because he glances over hisshoulder.

His eyes fall right on Gwen, and I swear he looks like the heavens have opened up and gifted him a goddess. A goddess in the form of Gwen James, who gives the man a bright, white smile—and out of the corner of her mouth, says, “He’s a carrot top. Um, nothankyou.”

I don’t even know what to saytothat.

Her smile never fades when she points to the guy standing next to the man with the friendly “carrot-top” hair. “Thatguy,” she saystriumphantly.

Thatguy turns out to be wearing what most would consider an eyesore: blue leather shoes, a flamingo-pink shirt, and pastel yellow chinos. He looks like Easter, if Easter were a person and not represented to the masses as a cartoon-like bunny bearingcandy.

The words stick in my throat, and I cough into my free hand. “He’s, ah, very good-looking.”

The look Gwen gives me says she doesn’t believe me worth a damn. “You don’t have to lie. He’s not bad, looks-wise, but Iwillsay that he is pretty fantastic in bed. What he can do with his tongue should beillegal—”

Nope, totally not going there. “Tell me how youmethim!”

As Gwen waxes on about the Blades’ GM knocking boots with her between the sheets, I scan the owner’s box for familiar faces. I spent the entire cab ride studying important figures within the Blades’ organization, but now that I’m here . . . maybe it’s my nerves, but I just can’t bring to mind anyone that Ireviewed.

There’s also the fact that for the first time in my career within PR, I feel . . . not quite comfortable. Back in Detroit, I had no troubles mingling. I talked with the Red Wings’ owner about his daughters. After the game, I waltzed into the team’s locker room to speak with my clients about what was neededfromthem.

I’ve seen more than my fair share of dropped towels, and know the exact reason why Detroit’s goalie went by the name “Shortie,” and I’m not talking about the height ofhis. . .body.

I wasfearless.

And now . . . I run a finger along the collar of my silk shirt, peeling the material away from myflushedskin.

Holy cow, I think I’m having a panicattack.

I’ve never had one, and so I’m not sure if that’s what this is, but it certainly feels like it and . . . I need something todrink.Now.

The food and beverages are laid out on a buffet table along the back wall, opposite the glass overlooking the ice rink below. Members of the media, with press badges clipped to their shirts, walk around with audio recorders crammed below their mouths as they speak in lowvoices.

---