Page 22 of The Sin Bin

Lauren felt an unexpected pang in her chest. She'd grown accustomed to that small acknowledgment, that private connection in a public space, and its absence left her with a hollow feeling she hadn't anticipated.

"Okay, something is definitely going on," Barb agreed, picking up on the tension now. "Do you think it has to do with Wilson?"

"Maybe," Lauren said, unease settling in her stomach. "I guess we'll find out."

The answer came sooner than expected. When the starting lineups were announced, Oliver Chenofski's name was conspicuously absent, replaced by Ethan in the first-line left wing position. The rookie looked simultaneously thrilled and terrified as he took his place for the opening face-off.

"Where's Chenny?" Barb wondered, scanning the bench.

Lauren's eyes found him at the far end, still in his equipment but wearing a team-issued ball cap instead of his helmet—the universal signal that a player wasn't participating. He sat apart from the others, his usually animated face drawn and pale.

The mystery deepened when, during a first-period timeout, the arena screens showed a close-up of the bench. Oliver was visibly struggling, his breathing labored as he spoke intensely with the team trainer. The camera quickly cut away, but not before Lauren recognized the signs of what looked like a panic attack.

As a vet who'd worked with fearful animals, Lauren was familiar with the physical manifestations of anxiety. The rapid breathing, the unfocused gaze, the tension that seemed to vibrate through Oliver's slender frame—all classic indicators of a system in fight-or-flight mode.

She wasn't the only one who'd noticed. Jax hovered near Oliver during the next line change, saying something that made the younger player nod gratefully. When Jax returned to the ice, he positioned himself directly in front of Wilson, a human shield between the Phantoms' center and his team's bench.

The Phantoms players gave Jax a wide berth on the ice, his reputation creating an almost visible force field around him. Even the referee seemed wary, watching him with extra attention as if expecting an explosion of violence at any moment. Lauren realized with sudden clarity the weight of the mantle he carried—the fear he inspired created space for his teammates, but it also isolated him, marked him as something apart.

"I'm starting to see why they call him the enforcer," Barb observed. "It's not just about the fighting, is it?"

"No," Lauren said softly, something warm unfurling in her chest as she watched Jax deliberately drawing Wilson's attention, absorbing a punishing check that allowed Kane to break free with the puck. "It's about protection."

The first period ended with the score tied 0-0, but the real drama seemed to be unfolding off the ice. During the intermission, Lauren checked her phone and found a text from Jax:Oliver's having a rough night. Anxiety issues that usually stay private. Media's already asking questions. Might get complicated.

She hesitated, then typed back:Is there anything I can do to help?

The reply came quickly:Actually, yes. Meet me at the medical room entrance after the game? Oliver might need a ride home. Team doesn't want media seeing him like this.

Lauren blinked in surprise. It was an unexpected request, but one that spoke of trust.

Of course, she replied.Just tell me where to go.

When she looked up from her phone, Barb was watching her with raised eyebrows. "So, are you going to tell me why you're suddenly smiling at your phone like a teenager with a crush, or do I have to guess?"

Lauren briefed her friend on the situation, careful to keep her voice low despite the arena noise. "It's not a big deal," she insisted when Barb's expression turned knowing. "He's just asking for help with a teammate."

"Uh-huh," Barb nodded skeptically. "Because you, a veterinarian with no connection to the team, are the obvious choice to help a hockey player having an anxiety attack."

Put that way, it did seem strange. "Maybe he just doesn't want to involve more people than necessary," Lauren suggested, though the explanation felt thin even to her own ears.

"Or maybe he trusts you," Barb said, unusually serious. "And that's kind of a big deal for a guy in his position."

Before Lauren could respond, the teams returned to the ice for the second period. The atmosphere had shifted, an edge of meanness entering the game as Philadelphia seemed to sense vulnerability. Wilson in particular played with a targeted aggression, deliberately finishing his checks against the Chill's smaller players.

Two rows ahead, a fan held up his phone to capture a video of the action on the ice, and Lauren caught a glimpse of what looked like a live Twitter feed streaming alongside the game. Comments scrolled past rapidly:

@PhantomFanatic: Wilson going after their rookies. Smart. Make Thompson lose his cool.

@ChillFactor67: If Wilson keeps this up, Thompson's gonna send him to the hospital. #GlovesDrop

@HockeyAnalyst: Interesting psychological warfare happening. PHI trying to get Thompson to take a bad penalty that could cost the game.

The game was being dissected in real time by thousands of voices, all focused on Jax, all expecting violence. The pressure must be immense, Lauren realized—to carry not just his team's expectations but the bloodthirsty anticipation of an entire fan base.

Midway through the period, the inevitable confrontation came. Wilson caught Ethan with a borderline hit, nothing as flagrant as the previous incident but enough to send the rookie sprawling. The crowd rose as one, anticipating Jax's response.

Lauren found herself holding her breath, her hands gripping the armrests of her seat. This was the moment of truth, the test she'd been dreading.

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