Page 103 of The Sin Bin

"Thirty minutes to warmups. Get ready."

As the room erupted into renewed pre-game energy, Jax checked his phone one last time. Still nothing from Lauren. He tucked the device away, trying to focus solely on hockey. For the next three hours, nothing existed except the game.

After Vicky left, Jax made his way to Ethan's stall. "You good, kid?"

Ethan didn't look up from his stick taping. "All set."

"Listen," Jax said, dropping his voice. "Don't try to do too much out there. Wilson's going to be looking to make a statement. Just play your game."

Ethan finally looked up, something unfamiliar and cold in his eyes. "Don't worry about Wilson."

Something in the rookie's tone raised alarm bells, but before Jax could press further, Kane called the team together for final preparations.

HE ROAR OF THE HOMEcrowd washed over Jax as he stepped onto the ice for warmups. Twenty minutes later, sitting in the locker room for final preparations, the sound still echoed in his ears—expectant, hungry, a physical force pressing against his consciousness.

Kane delivered the traditional captain's speech, emphasizing opportunity over pressure. Vicky reinforced key tactical points. Equipment staff made final adjustments to gear.

And then it was time.

The team tunnel vibrated with accumulated energy as the starting lineup was announced over the arena speakers. Jax wasn't starting—part of the managed minutes approach—but the crowd roared when his name was included in the full roster announcement.

From his position in the tunnel, Jax scanned the stands, eyes automatically seeking the WAGs section where players' partners sat together. His heart sank when he didn't see Lauren among them. The realization shouldn't have stung—he'd known she was in surgery—but the physical absence hit harder than expected.

The starting lineups took the ice, Philly's Wilson among them, smirking during the national anthem like he knew something no one else did. Jax watched from the bench, his protective instincts flaring as Wilson's gaze kept drifting toward the Chill's bench.

The referee skated to center ice. Players settled into position for the opening faceoff. Kane versus Philadelphia's center.

The puck dropped.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion.

Ethan, positioned on the wing for the opening faceoff, didn't go for the puck. Instead, he made a beeline for Wilson, dropping his gloves before he'd even reached the Philadelphia enforcer. The sudden, unexpected attack caught Wilson off guard. Ethan landed two solid punches before Wilson could even react.

The arena erupted. The refs immediately moved in but gave the players the traditional space to settle their business. Wilson recovered quickly, his experience in these situations evident as he squared up properly.

"What the fuck?" Jax was on his feet, hands gripping the bench railing. This wasn't the plan. This wasn't what they'd prepared for.

On the ice, Ethan was fighting with reckless abandon, no technique, just pure fury. Wilson landed several hard shots, but the rookie kept coming, landing a surprising uppercut that sent Wilson staggering backward.

Both benches were on their feet now, the crowd in a frenzy as the rookie and the veteran enforcer traded blows. Blood was visible on Ethan's face, but he showed no sign of backing down.

"Somebody get the fucking kid out of there!" Jax shouted, but the linesman were letting it play out—playoff hockey's unwritten rules in full effect.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity but was probably only thirty seconds, the officials stepped in, separating the fighters. Wilson's face was marked with unexpected damage, his expression a mixture of surprise and rage. Ethan was breathing hard, blood dripping from a cut near his eye, but there was satisfaction written all over his face.

As the officials escorted both players off the ice—game misconducts for both, ejected before the game had even properly begun—Ethan skated past the bench. His eyes met Jax's briefly, a silent message passing between them.

I handled it so you didn't have to.

Coach Vicky was beside Jax in an instant, her voice low but firm. "You're done. Locker room. Now."

"What? But Wilson's gone, the threat—"

"This isn't a discussion, Thompson." Her expression was stone. "Line combinations are already fucked with Ethan gone. I need players I can trust to follow the game plan."

The implication was clear—she thought Jax had put Ethan up to this. Had somehow orchestrated this pre-emptive strike.

"Coach, I didn't—"

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