Page 74 of The Sin Bin

Jax found the captain hunched over a laptop, game footage already queued up. Kane didn't look up when Jax entered, just said, "What's the damage?"

"Bone bruise. Game-time for Thursday."

Kane winced. "Shit. That's what I was afraid of." He gestured to the screen. "Look at their forecheck pattern when you're not on the ice."

Jax lowered himself carefully into the chair beside Kane, studying the clip. "They collapse to the middle more. Taking away the quick outlet."

"Exactly. When you're out there, they stay wide, respect your reach." Kane ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "They've been studying our zone exits. Without you..."

"Ethan's not ready for those minutes," Jax concluded, naming the rookie defenseman who would likely fill his role.

"No, he's not." Kane met his eyes directly. "I need you out there Thursday. But I need you for the whole series more."

The honesty in Kane's voice—this wasn't just captain talk, this was friend to friend—made Jax nod slowly. "I'll be smart about it."

"See that you are." Kane clapped him gently on the shoulder, mindful of his injury. "Because Lauren would kill me if I let you do something stupid."

"You're scared of my girlfriend?" Jax asked, lips twitching.

"Terrified," Kane confessed with a grin. "Anyone who can put her arm inside a horse for a living deserves healthy respect."

The easy way Kane referred to Lauren as his girlfriend felt right in a way Jax hadn't expected. "Fair point."

By the time Jax finally escaped the arena, midnight had come and gone. Every part of him ached, from his burning legs to his throbbing side to the knot at the base of his skull.

In his truck, he checked his phone and found a string of messages—Mr. Collins confirming Tripod's meds, Kane wanting to review film over breakfast, and three from Lauren:

I've got to leave. I've got an emergency at the clinic. I'll be listening to the game.

Followed by:That spear in the third looked painful. Ribs ok?

And finally:Impressive win. You must be exhausted. Text when you're home safe, regardless of the hour.

He had been wondering where she had gone.

Just leaving the arena, he replied.Ribs bruised but not broken. Medical clearance for practice tomorrow with modified contact. Game-time for Thursday.

Her response came almost instantly:Glad it's not serious. Ice/heat rotation and anti-inflammatories. Doctor's orders.

Which kind of doctor are you again?Jax texted back.

The kind who knows pain management transcends species, came her quick reply.And the kind who worries about hockey players who take the end of the stick in the ribs because the refs are fucking blind.

Don't make me laugh. It hurts.

Do you want to come over? I'm still at the clinic. I'm going to be awhile.

I do, but I'm beat.

I understand. Go home and rest those ribs. Your cats are waiting, and there's ibuprofen in your medicine cabinet, second shelf.

The simple fact that she knew where he kept his painkillers made him close his eyes in contentment.

Congrats on the win.

One down, three to go.

Before turning the key in the ignition, Jax opened his browser and searched "Rousseau podcast enforcer." The results loaded instantly—a hockey podcast from yesterday, Montreal's star forward openly mocking "old-school enforcers like Thompson" and claiming the Chill were "living in the past with guys who can't play real hockey."

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