Page 72 of The Sin Bin

"I need you too," Jax said quietly, the simple declaration catching Lauren off guard with its directness. "This wasn't how I wanted the evening to go."

The admission touched something deep in Lauren's chest, a warm certainty spreading through her at his honesty. "There will be other evenings," she promised, reaching up to straighten the collar of his shirt in a gesture that felt surprisingly intimate. "I suppose I could stay here and watch them."

"I'd really like you to be here when I get back, but I know that's selfish."

"Go be the defensive genius Coach needs. I'll baby sit."

"Thank you. For understanding, for helping with Tripod, for... everything."

The gratitude in his voice made Lauren realize how rare it must be for him to have someone in his life who accepted the demands of his profession without resentment. "That's what..." she hesitated, searching for the right word. "...partners do."

Something lit in Jax's eyes at her choice of term. "Partners," he repeated, as if testing the word. "I like that."

"Me too," Lauren admitted, rising on tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

Jax deepened the kiss briefly before reluctantly pulling away. "I'm not sure when I'll be back."

"I'll wait up for you," she promised, already mourning the loss of his warmth as he stepped back.

At the door, he paused. "I'm lucky to have you."

Lauren watched him go, the words she'd held back earlier rising again in her mind.I'm falling in love with you.Not yet spoken, but undeniably true.

Behind her, Tripod and Penalty curled together on the couch, the tortoiseshell's body protectively curved around the kitten—two broken creatures healing each other, just as she and Jax were slowly doing the same.

Chapter Sixteen

Jax

April 18th, First Round Playoff-Game 1 of 7

Montreal's top line came at them like a freight train. Their center dangled through the neutral zone, forcing Jax to pivot and backpedal, his edges digging deep into the ice. A drop pass to their winger nearly caught him flat-footed, but Jax extended his stick, just disrupting the play enough for Marcus to slide over and clear the zone.

"Nice stick, Thompson!" Vicky barked from the bench.

By the third period, Jax's legs felt like they were filled with cement. Twenty-five minutes of ice time already, more than he'd logged all season, and they were only up by one. Sweat stung his eyes as he gasped for breath during a rare stoppage in play. His ribs screamed where he'd taken that hit in the corner.

Worth it though. He'd separated their star winger from the puck without taking a penalty.

Sven tapped his pads with his blocker. "You're making my job easy, big man," the goalie said, his Swedish accent thicker when he was tired. "Keep pushing them wide."

Five minutes left on the clock. 2-2 game. Jax glanced at the bench as he lined up for the faceoff, catching Vicky's eye. She gave him a short nod. No message necessary—shut this shit down.

Montreal's top line jumped over the boards, fresh legs against his burning ones. Their center won the draw clean, kicking it back to their defenseman, who loaded up for a one-timer. Jax read it coming and threw himself into the shooting lane, the puck stinging as it caught him just below the elbow pad.

The puck skittered toward Marcus, who snagged it and immediately looked up ice. This was it—exactly the breakout they'd drilled for hours. Marcus slid it to Jax, who hit Kane in stride as he crossed center ice. Kane found Dmitri flying down the wing with speed.

Dmitri's shot clanged off the goalie's pad, the rebound kicking right to Ethan's tape. The rookie didn't hesitate, burying it top shelf where mama hides the cookies.

The bench erupted, sticks banging against the boards. As Jax glided back for fist bumps, he caught Vicky's eye again. This time her nod carried something more than instruction—respect.

Jax's next two shifts were all about lockdown defense. Clear the zone. Keep it simple. No heroes. When the final horn blared and the Chill escaped with a 3-2 win, the satisfaction hit differently than the adrenaline rush of demolishing some guy in a fight. This was deeper. Sustainable.

"That," Kane declared in the locker room afterward, still breathing like he'd run a marathon, "was fucking beautiful hockey."

"Beautiful is subjective," Marcus replied, unlacing his skates with careful attention to each loop. "But statistically speaking, we executed the system at approximately 87% efficiency. So yes—fucking beautiful indeed."

"Only you, Adeyemi," Dmitri laughed, flicking a sweat-soaked wristband in the defenseman's direction. "But yes, was good."

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