Page 39 of Sin Bin

Charlie says, “She’s my best friend’s cousin,” at the exact same time Gwen mutters, “I’ve known her for years. Not in a professionalsetting.”

That’s all the answer I get before they’re verbally lunging at each otheragain.

“Don’t you know how to keep it in your pants, Gwen?” Charlie throws out, looking every inch the disappointedmother.

Gwen, for her part, rolls her eyes. “He’s not marriedanymore.”

“It’s called settling on a separation. He’s still legallymarried.”

“He hasn’t slept with his wife in twoyears.”

“Becausethatmakes it okay?” Charlie shakes her head, and her blonde ringlets sail through the air with the movement. “Please tell me it was onlyonetime.”

When Gwen bites her bottom lip, I decide it’s time to make my move. The two women are so caught up in their argument that they barely register the fact that I steal two quesadillas from the silver tray for myself and then make myescape.

Perhaps it’s the hockey gods shining down on me, but at that moment, the buzzer kicks off and the announcer’s baritone fills the arena: “Alllll righttttt, there, who is ready to watch the game of theseason?”

The crowd goes wild, the sound piercing the owner’s box, even with the glass enclosing us. My feet carry me over to the window, and, for once, I’m content with knowing that not a single soul knows whoIam.

As I shovel the remaining bites of quesadilla into my mouth, I keep my gaze trained on the ice below. Aside from two specks, which look a lot like referees, the players haven’t yet entered thearena.

“The Blades are currently 17-23-2 this season,” the announcer continues boisterously. “It hasnotbeen a good season for this Boston hockey team.” The crowd appropriately boos, and even a few of the men behind me follow like a pack of lemmings, cupping their hands around their mouths and echoing theboos. “The Philadelphia Flyers are currently the leading team in the division, with a record of 38-2-2. I don’t know about you, Bob, but unless the Blades manage to pull a rabbit out of a magic hat tonight, it’s gonna get bloody down onthatice.”

The second announcer, Bob, gives a low, humorless chuckle that revs the crowd into a high-pitched roar. Over the noise, he says, “Don’t I know it, Tom. But I think we’re going to have ourselves a good onetonight.”

“If number twenty-two from the Blades manages to stay out of the penalty box, wouldn’tyousay?”

“Yes, absolutely. At the rate Andre Beaumont is going, he’ll have his name scrawled on the Plexiglas of the sin bin by the end of theseason,Tom.”

“Any idea on what’s gotten into him lately? ‘King Sin Bin’ nickname aside, Beaumont has always been a hard player, but recently, it’s been a different game he’s playing. If he keeps it up, he might not even find himself playing for Boston for anotherseason.”

“I hate to do this, but I have to agree with you on this one. If Andre Beaumont can’t find a way to get out of his head and back into the game, then there is a very good chance he won’t be sticking around for muchlonger.”

As the announcers move on to talk about the other players and their predictions for tonight’s game, my brain is hardwired on one person: AndreBeaumont.

This is way worse than I thought, and I already thought the situation was pretty bad. It’s one thing for him to be messing up off the ice, but for him to be bringing that same mindset to his career? We have a problem—a huge problem that I don’t think is going to be solved by earning back some keysponsors.

This is going to be my last seasonanyway.

His words from yesterday have haunted me all night, and now they push back to the forefront. I hate to put it this way, but it seems like a pretty solid chance that Andre is actuallythrowing awayhiscareer.

Which isidiotic.

Even after our incident last year, he remained a first-round trade pick. The man is damn good at what he does, regardless of his other . . .faults.

Wishing that I was down in the crowd, I press my hand to the cool window. The buzzer sounds off again, and then, one by one, the players take to the ice. We’re so far up that they appear like little dots, circling around the marked arena like buzzards aftertheirprey.

I find myself searching for Andre. Back when I worked for the Red Wings, I attended almost every home game. In the beginning, it was only so I could slowly learn the nature of the sport. My mom wasn’t a hockey fan, and phrases like “deke” or “icing” were totally beyond mycomprehension.

Ask me what shoes are the must-haves this season, and I totally have you covered,though.

But then I met Andre, and slowly, so slowly that I barely even realized what was happening, my attendance at the games had less to do with learning and more to do with supporting my client andfriend.

I wore his jersey with pride, sitting up in the nosebleeds or wherever I could find anemptyseat.

I could have easily sat up in the owner’s box, but what was the funinthat?

Sure, there was food, but the life—thesoul—of hockey was found in the hundreds of rows of seats stretching up fromtheice.

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