Page 85 of The Sin Bin

"Heard his girlfriend doesn't like the fighting," his friend replied, loud enough to ensure Lauren would hear. "Turning our enforcer into a goddamn pussy."

Lauren's cheeks burned. She stared straight ahead, unwilling to turn around but unable to escape the venom in their voices. She glanced at the press section, where reporters were typing furiously on laptops. One headline on a screen read: "THOMPSON RESTRAINT: EVOLUTION OR SURRENDER?"

Her phone vibrated with a text from Barb:Wilson should be ejected. How are Jax's ribs holding up?

Lauren's fingers shook slightly as she typed:Wilson should be arrested. Jax is hurting but won't show it. Some fans here think he should have fought Wilson.

Barb's response was immediate:Fuck those fans. Tell them to try playing with bruised ribs.

"Hey!" A sharp female voice cut through the toxic commentary. "You want to repeat that with your mom standing here?"

Lauren turned to see a striking woman with light brown hair standing in the aisle, hands on her hips as she stared down the hecklers. Her expression was thunderous.

"I—we were just saying—" the man stammered.

"I heard exactly what you were saying," the woman cut him off. "And since you apparently understand hockey as well as you understand basic human decency, let me explain something. Thompson is playing exactly the game his coach wants. That's why we're winning."

She gestured at the scoreboard. "Or would you prefer he take a stupid penalty so Wilson gets exactly what he wants? Is that your brilliant hockey strategy?"

The men mumbled something incoherent, suddenly fascinated by their phones.

The woman caught Lauren's eye and gave her a nod before sliding into a seat a few rows in front of her. It took Lauren a moment to place her—Allison, Kane's wife, whom she'd briefly met at O'Malley's.

When the teams returned for the third period, Ethan was noticeably absent from the bench. Coach Vicky had adjusted the line combinations to compensate for the missing forward.

Lauren focused on Jax as he took the ice. Her hands twisted the program into a mangled shape as she watched him settle into his defensive position. Even from this distance, she could see the careful way he breathed—shallow inhales to minimize rib movement, a technique she recognized from treating patients with similar injuries.

The large screen showed a replay of Wilson's hit on Ethan, followed by Jax's restrained response. The crowd's reaction was mixed—some applause for his discipline, but also audible grumbling.

"Fans want old-school Thompson back," someone commented loudly. "This new version's boring as hell."

On the ice, Jax won a battle along the boards, making a smart defensive play that launched a counterattack. The crowd appreciated the move, but without the visceral excitement that a fight would have generated.

The third period unfolded with championship-level intensity. Philadelphia pressed aggressively while the Chill countered with structured defense, clinging to their slim lead.

With five minutes remaining, Wilson's line matched against Jax and Marcus again. As Philadelphia established offensive zone pressure, Wilson positioned himself directly in front of Sven, using his size to screen the goaltender while delivering subtle jabs to Jax's already-tender ribs—provocations just below the threshold of penalty-worthy offense.

Lauren gripped the armrests, her knuckles white. Each impact made her wince as if she could feel the pain herself. She bit her lower lip hard enough to taste blood, watching Wilson deliberately target Jax's injury.

"He's going after the ribs," Mr. Collins observed quietly beside her. "Thompson's playing hurt."

"Yes," Lauren whispered, her throat tight. "He is."

The breaking point came with brutal clarity. Wilson, frustrated by Jax's restraint, abandoned any pretense of hockey and delivered a blatant crosscheck directly to Jax's injured ribs—a deliberate target of known vulnerability. The force sent Jax momentarily to his knees despite his substantial size.

Lauren half-rose from her seat, a strangled sound escaping her throat. In that moment, professional detachment vanished entirely—this wasn't just a player being hit, it was Jax, her Jax, and every protective instinct she possessed screamed in outrage.

The officials' whistles shrieked immediately, assessing Wilson another major penalty. As he was escorted toward the box, the Philadelphia player shouted something at Jax that Lauren couldn't hear but could easily interpret—a final provocation, an accusation disguised as challenge.

The arena held its collective breath, waiting for the retaliation that hockey tradition demanded.

It never came.

Instead, Jax simply rose to his feet, adjusted his helmet, and positioned himself for the power play.

The jumbotron caught Wilson's face as he shouted from the penalty box: "You've gone soft, Thompson! What happened to you?"

For just a moment, doubt flickered across Jax's features—a microsecond of uncertainty, visible only to those who knew him well. Then his game face returned, but Lauren had seen it—the question that had landed, the seed of doubt planted.

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