Page 2 of The Sin Bin

"You're welcome." Jax grabbed a towel. "Ice that face. Twenty minutes on, twenty off. And next time, keep your damn head up."

He didn't wait to see if the rookie followed his advice. Coach was waiting, and Victoria Kovalchuk was not a woman who appreciated being kept waiting.

"THE LEAGUE OFFICE WASin my voice mail before you even got off the ice."

Coach Vicky's office was spare and functional, like the woman herself. Jax noticed the faint scent of mint tea and ice spray that always seemed to linger around her. His eyes tracked over the few personal touches—a framed Team Canada Olympic gold medal jersey behind glass that caught the fluorescent light, and a chessboard permanently set up in the corner with a game perpetually in progress. He'd never seen anyone actually play it.

She gestured to the chair opposite her desk, but Jax remained standing. His ribs protested with each breath, a sharp reminder of Wilson's stick jabbing between his pads during the scrum. The post-fight adrenaline crash was hitting him now, each muscle seizing up in slow, painful increments. Sitting would only make standing again worse.

"Am I suspended?" he asked, running a hand over his shaved head, the familiar sensation of stubble against his palm grounding him. His heart pounded against his bruised ribcage. Eight years in the league, but the threat of suspension still made his mouth go dry. Hockey was all he had.

"Not yet." She leveled her penetrating eyes at him, the same eyes that had stared down Olympic opponents and skeptical media. Jax fought the urge to look away. "But the new PR director is having kittens about it. Stephanie Ellis—you met her at the season kickoff?"

Jax vaguely recalled a slender woman with a perpetual frown and a clipboard, looking entirely out of place amid the usual chaos of hockey operations. She'd worn a tailored suit that probably cost more than his first car, her designer heels clicking authoritatively across the marble floors of the executive level—a floor he rarely visited, with its mahogany paneling and framed jerseys of franchise legends.

"The suits upstairs hired her last month to 'rehabilitate team culture,'" Vicky said, making air quotes with her fingers, not bothering to hide her disdain. "She thinks your style of play doesn't align with the family-friendly image they're trying to build."

"So I shouldn't have defended the kid?" Heat rose in his throat again.

"You and I both know that's exactly what you should have done." Vicky poured herself two fingers of whiskey from a bottle she kept in her bottom drawer. She didn't offer him any. "That's what enforcers do. Without guys like you, the skill players get destroyed. But the league is changing, Thompson. They're trying to market a cleaner game."

Jax clenched his jaw but said nothing, tasting blood where he'd bitten the inside of his cheek during the fight. The familiar copper tang mixed with the bitterness of truth. Eight years of being paid to lose his temper made it a hard habit to break. It was the one thing he'd always been good at—channeling the rage that had simmered inside him since childhood into something useful, something that earned him respect instead of fear.

He thought of the fans though, how they roared when he fought. How they'd crowded against the glass during warmups, banging and shouting his name. How they spent hundreds of dollars on his jersey just so they could wear his name on their backs. What would happen when that part of his identity was stripped away? Who was Jax Thompson without his fists?

"Ellis is coming by tomorrow morning. She's going to push for some kind of PR campaign to 'soften your image,'" Vicky said, not bothering to hide her eye roll. "Something with puppies or children or whatever crap they think will counterbalance you feeding Wilson his teeth on national television."

"What do you think I should do?" Jax asked, surprised by his own question. He rarely sought advice, especially from authority figures.

Vicky knocked back her whiskey. Her gold medal glinted behind her like a halo. "I think you should be smart. Play the game—their game—for now. But when the puck drops..." She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "You protect our boys. That's your job, and I respect it. Just don't get yourself suspended doing it."

His knuckles throbbed as if in agreement, the split skin pulling tight. "Yes, Coach."

"And Thompson?" She fixed him with that penetrating stare again. "Ellis doesn't know shit about hockey. Remember that when she's talking at you tomorrow. But the suits listen to her, so we have to play along."

"Got it." The weight in his chest eased slightly. At least Coach was on his side.

"Ice those knuckles. And take something for those ribs—I saw Wilson cheap-shot you in the scrum." Her tone had softened, the concern of a coach for a valued player breaking through her tough exterior. "We need you at a hundred percent. Playoffs aren't far off."

Jax nodded, something almost like gratitude fighting through his exhaustion. As he turned to leave, Vicky added, "Oh, and Jax? Next time Wilson pulls that shit, make sure the cameras get your good side."

He couldn't help but smile as he headed for the door. "Don't have a good side, Coach."

She chuckled. "Get outta here before Ellis shows up with her focus groups and sensitivity training."

IT WAS FREAKIN' COLD, even for Connecticut in February. Jax exited the players' parking lot, his game-day suit doing little to ward off the frigid wind. His bespoke suit—a grudging concession to the team's dress code—felt like costume, the Italian wool and silk tie at odds with the bruises forming beneath them. The New Haven arena loomed behind him, its emptying parking lot a stark contrast to the thunderous cacophony of the game just hours before. Luxury cars with tinted windows pulled away, carrying high-paying fans back to penthouses and gated communities. Funny how quickly the lights dimmed, the fans dispersed, the roars faded. Silence was always waiting on the other side of glory.

His ribs throbbed with each breath, another bruise to add to the tapestry that covered his body—a living record of battles fought and mostly forgotten. Sometimes Jax wondered if his body remembered what it felt like not to hurt.

Most of his teammates had already cleared out, heading to the usual post-game haunts to celebrate the win. O'Malley's would be packed tonight, the team riding high on their victory over their bitter rivals. Dmitri would be buying rounds for everyone, his accent growing thicker with each shot. Kane would be holding court in their usual corner booth, recounting the game's highlights. Marcus would be nursing a single whiskey, quietly analyzing plays on his tablet.

But Jax didn't feel much like celebrating. Eight years in the league, and tonight was the first time he'd wondered if it was all worth it. The money was good—better than good for a kid who grew up eating government cheese—but lately, it felt hollow. What was the point of a million-dollar contract if your body was breaking down at twenty-nine? If your purpose was just to hurt people for a living?

His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably Kane checking to see where he was. The captain was good that way, always making sure his teammates were taken care of, especially after a rough game. But Jax wasn't in the mood to deal with it right now.

That's when he heard it—a sound so faint he nearly missed it over the hum of the distant highway. A small, pitiful mewling coming from near the dumpsters. The sound pierced through the white noise of his own thoughts.

Jax turned, his body protesting the movement. Every joint seemed to creak like an old house settling, a man approaching thirty in a young man's game.

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