Page 96 of The Sin Bin

"Let's just wait and see, then," he replied, his uninjured hand covering hers where it rested against his face. "I'll listen to the doctors."

Lauren wasn't sure she believed him, but what other choice did she have?

Chapter Twenty-Two

Jax

Pain had become a familiar companion.

Three days after Philadelphia, Jax sat in the dim light of his apartment, a cold pack pressed to his orbital bone. The television flickered in front of him, volume muted as SportsCenter replayed the grainy security camera footage for what felt like the thousandth time. Without sound or context, the images painted their own damning story—Jax towering over average-sized men, his defensive reaction looking disproportionate, his opponent crashing through a table in what appeared to be excessive violence. "MORE BLOODSHED EXPECTED FOR GAME 3" scrolled across the bottom of the screen, below a split-image of his bruised face alongside Wilson's smirking one.

Jax's jaw clenched, sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull. Fucking vultures. The movement made him wince. He should turn off the television. He should stop watching. But it was like picking at a scab. The footage never showed him walking away from verbal provocations at first. Never showed the first punch thrown at him. Never captured what they'd said about Lauren.

Penalty kneaded his thigh, purring in oblivious contentment while Tripod watched from her perch on the windowsill, her three-legged silhouette stark against the city lights. The cats had been his only consistent company since the team returned from Philadelphia with a commanding 2-0 series lead. Now they were preparing for Game 3 at home tomorrow—possibly without him. Lauren had been working long hours at her clinic.

His phone buzzed on the coffee table. Kane.

Wilson's running his mouth to media. Says Game 3 will be "different" without you in the lineup. Coach shut down questions about your status, but these vultures smell blood. You seeing the doc this afternoon?

Jax's thumb hovered over the keyboard before he tossed the phone aside without responding. What was there to say? Up 2-0 in the series, heading into a pivotal game three, and here he was, sidelined by some fans with a grudge against him.

He shifted position, biting back a groan as the movement sent daggers through his ribs. The bruising there had deepened to an ugly purple-black, courtesy of the second asshole in the bar. The orbital fracture throbbed with steady discomfort rather than acute pain. The prescribed meds helped take the edge off without completely clouding his thoughts.

His phone buzzed again, this time with a call. Lauren's name lit up the screen, her contact photo—taken at the shelter with Tripod in her arms—momentarily cutting through the darkness swallowing him. He answered immediately.

"Hey," he managed, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

"Just wrapping up at the clinic," Lauren said, exhaustion evident despite obvious effort to sound normal. "Full schedule today."

"You shouldn't work so hard," Jax said, concern overriding his own discomfort.

"Says the man who blocked three shots with his body in game two," Lauren countered gently. "I'm guessing you haven't slept, despite medical recommendations."

The accuracy of her assessment almost made him smile, but the movement would hurt too much. "Sleep and I are currently negotiating terms."

"I'm coming over," Lauren said. "With food. Real food, not whatever protein bars are scattered around your coffee table."

Jax's gaze fell to the wrappers littering his table. Busted.

"You should rest," he protested weakly, though the prospect of her presence was the first thing that had penetrated his dark mood in days.

"I need to see you," Lauren corrected softly. "I'll rest better knowing you're properly taken care of."

That warmed something in Jax's chest that had been growing increasingly cold with isolation and media bombardment.

"If you insist, Dr. Mackenzie."

"I do, Mr. Thompson. Thirty minutes."

After disconnecting, Jax made a halfhearted attempt to tidy the apartment, gathering wrappers and bottles into a garbage bag. Each bend sent fresh lightning through his ribcage, a brutal reminder of injuries still very much in the acute phase. By the time he'd cleared the most obvious evidence of neglect, sweat beaded on his forehead and his breathing had shortened to desperate pulls.

He lowered himself back onto the couch, where Penalty immediately reclaimed his position on Jax's lap. The simple weight of the cat made him grit his teeth. If merely having a kitten on his lap caused this much pain, how the fuck would he handle playoff hockey tomorrow night?

The thought sank like a stone in his gut. For the first time in his career, he was facing the real possibility of missing a crucial playoff game. Not just any game—game three with a chance to go up 3-0 in the series, at home, with momentum on their side. The team doctor had been blunt about the orbital fracture timeline. He would like to see him wait two weeks before playing again.

Tomorrow's game was a hell of a lot sooner than that.

Lauren let herself in with the key he'd given her weeks earlier. The sight of her—still in scrubs, hair escaping its practical ponytail, shadows under her eyes—hit Jax with unexpected force. Here was someone who understood exhaustion yet still prioritized him.

---