Page 21 of The Sin Bin

Lauren accepted her drink without taking her eyes off the ice where the Chill were currently running warm-up drills. "It's growing on me," she admitted, watching as Jax tracked a puck along the boards, his movements powerful despite his size.

"Mmm, I bet it is," Barb said, following Lauren's gaze. "Specifically, player number sixty-seven seems to be 'growing on you' quite a bit."

"It's not like that," Lauren insisted, though the excuse sounded hollow even to her own ears. Three games in two weeks was a lot for her. She normally just stayed home and read.

"Right. And I'm just here for the nachos," Barb said, popping a cheese-laden chip into her mouth. "Not because the backup goalie has an ass that won't quit."

"Sven?" Lauren laughed. "I thought you were Team Dmitri after he winked at you last week."

"A woman can appreciate multiple works of art," Barb said with a dignified sniff. "Besides, the Russian is definitely taken. The red head in the section below us hasn't stopped glaring at me since I waved at him."

Lauren took a sip of her beer, surveying the arena as it slowly filled with fans. It was strange how quickly the foreign environment had become familiar—the rhythmic thumping of bass-heavy music, the scrape of skates on ice, the buzz of anticipation that built as game time approached.

A group of teenage girls in front of them were scrolling through their phones, giggling as they showed each other something on screen.

"Oh my god, did you see Jax's latest hit compilation?" one asked. "Three million views since yesterday."

"The comments are fire," another replied. "Someone called him 'The Grim Reaper on Skates.' So accurate."

"@HockeyFightCentral is predicting he'll destroy Wilson tonight," a third girl added. "After what happened last game? It's gonna be bloody."

Lauren leaned forward slightly, catching a glimpse of the screen. A Twitter thread with thousands of comments showcased various angles of Jax's previous fights, with armchair analysts debating his technique and ferocity. The social media storm surrounding him was intense, with fans analyzing his every move like scholars of violence.

"Speaking of jealous glares," Barb murmured, subtly nodding toward a group of women in the lower section, "the Thompson fan club has noticed your regular attendance."

Lauren followed her gaze to where several women in Chill jerseys with THOMPSON 67 across their shoulders were indeed watching her with undisguised curiosity. One leaned over to whisper to another, both looking up at Lauren with speculative expressions.

"That's ridiculous," Lauren said, though she felt a blush creeping up her neck. "No one even knows who I am."

"Except the players, who've seen you at multiple games, sitting in the seats that a certain enforcer personally arranged for you," Barb pointed out. "Trust me, honey, in the hockey world, that's practically a Facebook relationship status update."

One of the women pulled out her phone, angling it subtly in Lauren's direction. "They're definitely taking pictures," Barb whispered. "You'll probably be on HockeyWAGsWatch by morning."

"On what?"

"It's an Instagram account that tracks players' potential girlfriends. Very creepy, very thorough."

Before Lauren could formulate a suitably dismissive response, her attention was drawn to the ice where the mood had suddenly shifted. The players had been loose and relaxed during warm-ups, but now there was a tightness in their movements, a tension visible even from the stands.

"Something's wrong," Lauren said, sitting forward.

"What do you mean?" Barb asked around a mouthful of nachos.

Lauren watched as Coach Vicky huddled with Kane, Jax, and Marcus at the bench, their expressions grim. Kane seemed to be arguing, his usually easy demeanor replaced by focused intensity. Jax stood like a statue, his face unreadable, but Lauren had come to recognize the way his shoulders set when he was bracing for a fight.

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "But look at them."

The Philadelphia Phantoms were tonight's opponents—the team with Brady Wilson, whose cheap shot on Ethan had triggered Jax's viral fight. The rematch had been circled on calendars ever since, with sports media hyping the potential for retribution.

Nearby, a group of men in Chill jerseys were loudly discussing the upcoming game. "Thompson's gonna murder Wilson tonight," one declared. "I heard he got fined ten grand for that last fight, but it was worth every penny."

"Did you see that interview with Wilson yesterday?" another replied. "Calling Thompson a 'goon with no skill who only knows how to fight'? Man's got a death wish."

The third fan glanced toward the ice where Jax was now taking practice shots. "My buddy works security at the arena. Says the players are all terrified of Thompson. Like, they won't even make eye contact in the corridors before games. Guy's got this whole 'silent killer' vibe."

Lauren had been nervous about attending, afraid of seeing the Jax she'd first glimpsed on television—the enforcer whose cold rage had made her recoil. But over the last two weeks of caring for Penalty together, of quiet conversations at the shelter and text messages that evolved from updates on the kitten to personal check-ins, she'd come to see how much more there was to him than that public persona.

The buzzer sounded, ending warm-ups. As the teams left the ice, Jax glanced up at her seat, a ritual he'd established in the games she'd attended. Usually, he'd offer a small nod or the ghost of a smile. Tonight, his eyes found hers, but his expression remained somber, almost apologetic.

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