Page 3 of The Sin Bin

"Hello?" he called softly, feeling slightly ridiculous, calling into the darkness like a child checking for monsters.

The sound came again, weaker this time. Something in his chest tightened.

Following the noise, he crouched beside the dumpster, the smell of rotting food and stale beer assaulting his nostrils. His knees popped in protest as he lowered himself to peer into the shadows. Two tiny yellow eyes reflected the parking lot lights, wide with fear and something Jax recognized all too well—resignation. It was the look of something small that expected only pain from something large.

How many times had he seen that same look directed at him across the ice?

"Hey there," he murmured, keeping his voice low and gentle, the way he did with the rescue dogs at the shelter. The same voice his mother had used with him after his father's drunken rages, when Jax would hide in his closet, knees pulled to his chest. "It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you."

The kitten—because that's what it was, a tiny scrap of a thing with matted gray fur—tried to back away, but its movements were uncoordinated, sluggish. One of its hind legs dragged uselessly. The sight sent a wave of something hot and protective through Jax's chest, washing away the weariness that had settled there.

"You're hurt, aren't you, little guy?" Jax eased closer. Years of handling rescue animals had taught him how to appear less threatening, how to make his bulk fade into the background. It was a skill that served him well with the shelter's most traumatized residents—the ones who cowered at the sight of raised hands, who expected pain from human touch. He once knew what that felt like. "I'm going to help you. That okay with you?"

The kitten made another pitiful sound but didn't try to run as Jax carefully reached into his gym bag and pulled out one of his T-shirts.

"Easy now," he whispered, gently wrapping the kitten up. It was so small and fragile in his massive, scarred hands—the same hands that had just sent a two hundred pound hockey player crashing to the ice. The same hands that had broken noses, knocked out teeth, left bruises that would linger for weeks. Yet here they were, cradling a life that weighed less than a hockey puck.

The irony struck him hard. Jax Thompson, feared enforcer of the Charm City Chill, brought to his knees by three pounds of bedraggled fur.

The kitten didn't struggle, which worried him. That wasn't normal. In his experience, even the most injured animals usually had some fight left in them. It was the ones who had given up that broke his heart the most.

"Hey, stay with me, buddy," he murmured, one callused finger gently stroking the kitten's tiny head. "I've got you now. Nobody's gonna hurt you anymore."

His phone buzzed again, and this time he fished it out with his free hand, careful not to jostle his fragile cargo. Kane.

Where you at, big guy? We've got a table at O'Malley's. I owe you a beer.

Jax looked down at the trembling bundle in his arms, feeling the rapid, threadlike heartbeat against his palm, then at the time on his phone. Midnight. The kitten's eyes had drifted closed, its breathing shallow.

Rain check. Something came up.His thumbs felt too big for the keyboard, clumsy with urgency.

Kane's response was immediate:Everything ok?

Will be,Jax texted back, already heading to his truck.Need to find an emergency vet.

What?

Later.

Jax gently placed the wrapped kitten on the passenger seat of his pickup, securing it with gentle hands. In the harsh overhead light of the truck's cab, he could see just how young and malnourished the kitten was—ribs visible through dirty fur, one ear torn, eyes crusted with infection.

"Hang in there, little fighter," he murmured as he started the engine.

Chapter Two

Lauren

Dr. Lauren Mackenzie was having one of those shifts.

The kind where the coffee ran out at midnight, the backup tech called in sick, and every pet owner in New Haven seemed to have a night time emergency. Now, at almost one a.m., she was finally catching her breath and refilling her coffee mug when the television in the waiting room caught her attention.

"—brutal hit that has the league offices reviewing their policies on fighting once again. The Charm City Chill's enforcer, Jackson Thompson, is no stranger to controversy, but this latest altercation with the Philadelphia Phantoms' Brady Wilson has many questioning if there's still room for the traditional enforcer role in today's game."

Lauren paused, mug halfway to her lips, as the sports anchor's voice gave way to footage of what could only be described as a beating. A massive player in a Chill jersey launching himself at another player, fists flying with terrifying force. The camera zoomed in on his face—a mask of controlled rage, eyes cold and focused as he punished his opponent.

"And this isn't the first time Thompson has come under scrutiny," the anchor continued as social media comments flashed across the screen. "#73 is a DISGRACE to hockey" and "Thompson belongs in UFC not NHL" scrolled by, followed by counter arguments from fans: "Real hockey needs enforcers like Jax!" and "That's why they call him the Butcher!"

Lauren shuddered and turned away. Men and their violence. Always the same story, different uniform. She'd seen his type before, both professionally and personally. Hockey's glorified thugs, idolized for the very behavior that would get them arrested off the ice.

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