Page 84 of The Sin Bin

"That's all we need is Penalty learning hockey tricks," Lauren said.

The arena darkened for player introductions, spotlights dancing across the ice. When Jax's name boomed through the speakers, the response was thunderous—though Lauren caught conflicting shouts mixed with the cheers.

"Hit somebody, Thompson!" "Earn your paycheck!"

A group near the glass held up a banner that read "UNLEASH THE BEAST" with Jax's number emblazoned beneath it. Another fan several rows down wore a split jersey—half Chill colors, half white lab coat, with "DR. BEAUTY & MR. BEAST" written across the back.

Lauren's cheeks warmed. She'd known the relationship was public, but seeing it commodified by strangers was jarring.

The puck dropped with a tension that seemed to electrify the building. Both teams established a physical presence immediately, bodies colliding along the boards with dull thuds that made Lauren wince.

Midway through the first period, it happened. Wilson's line matched up against Jax and Marcus. On their first shift together, Wilson delivered a punishing check that sent Marcus crashing into the boards, the sound carrying even to Lauren's seat.

The crowd roared, anticipating retaliation. Lauren's fingers dug into her armrest, her chest tight. She could almost feel Jax's internal struggle from across the arena.

On the next play, Jax delivered a perfectly timed hip check that separated Wilson from the puck without crossing into penalty territory.

"What the hell was that?" complained the man behind her. "Wilson just ran his partner and Thompson does nothing?"

"Told you," his friend replied. "Lost his edge. Maybe his vet girlfriend neutered him."

Heat rushed to Lauren's face. She kept her eyes fixed forward, pretending she hadn't heard, though her pulse hammered in her ears.

A nearby fan wearing a press badge scribbled in a small notebook. Lauren caught the phrases "Thompson restraint" and "evolution or weakness?" before the reporter tucked the notebook away.

When Kane scored a power play goal late in the first period, the arena erupted. Lauren watched Jax join the celebration along the boards, genuine joy breaking through his game face. The scoreboard flashed 1-0 as the period ended.

During intermission, Lauren struggled to focus on Barb's texts, the comments from behind her still stinging.

Just caught the highlights. Your boy is playing smart. Wilson looks PISSED.

Lauren's phone buzzed with another notification—someone had tagged her in a Twitter poll: "Has Thompson gone soft since dating Dr. Mackenzie? Vote now!" The options were "Yes, she's tamed the beast" and "No, he's evolving his game."

Her hand trembled slightly as she closed the app. She hadn't realized how deeply fans would involve themselves in their relationship, how quickly they'd assign her responsibility for changes in Jax's play style.

As the second period began, Lauren noticed Philadelphia's strategy shift. They were targeting the younger players now, particularly Ethan and Oliver. If they couldn't provoke Jax directly, perhaps they could force his hand by threatening those he protected.

The tension in the arena ratcheted higher with each shift. Lauren leaned forward, her chest tightening with each hit, each near-collision. She caught herself holding her breath whenever Jax was on the ice, her doctor's mind cataloging every grimace, every careful adjustment of his posture after contact.

It happened in an instant. Ethan carried the puck through the neutral zone, eyes searching for Kane breaking free. From her elevated position, Lauren saw what the rookie couldn't—Wilson closing fast from his blind side. The Philadelphia player wasn't aiming for a clean check. His body was positioned for maximum damage.

The collision was sickening. Wilson drove his shoulder directly into Ethan's head, sending the younger player crumpling to the ice like a marionette with cut strings. The crowd surged to its feet in unified outrage as officials whistled the play dead.

Lauren's heart slammed against her ribs. As a medical professional, she recognized the telltale signs of concussion immediately—the momentary unconsciousness, the unnatural posture as Ethan fell. Her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms.

Her eyes shot to the bench. Jax stood rigid, his expression transforming from concern to controlled fury as trainers attended to Ethan on the ice. When he vaulted over the boards for his next shift, purpose radiated from every movement.

"Here we go!" shouted someone nearby. "Wilson's gonna get what's coming now!"

The officials assessed Wilson a five-minute major penalty for the illegal check to the head. Ethan was helped to the locker room, visibly dazed, while Wilson sat in the penalty box wearing a smirk that suggested the consequence was worth achieving his goal.

The jumbotron cut to a close-up of Jax's face. His jaw was clenched, eyes burning with barely contained rage. Lauren felt a chill. This was a side of him she'd glimpsed but never fully witnessed—the enforcer poised on the edge of violence.

But Jax didn't retaliate. Despite the provocation, despite the team culture that would have justified it, despite the crowd's bloodthirsty encouragement—he channeled his obvious anger into aggressive but controlled defensive play.

A rumble of discontent spread through the stands, punctuated by occasional shouts of 'Come on!' and 'Do something!'"

"What the actual fuck?" the man behind Lauren exploded as the period ended with the score still 1-0. "Wilson takes out our rookie with a headshot and Thompson just skates away? Fucking embarrassing."

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