Page 1 of The Sin Bin

Chapter One

Jax

February 7th– Countdown to playoffs

The arena came alive as the Charm City Chill's power play unit took the ice, the pulsing beat of "Welcome to the Jungle" drowning out the boos from the pocket of Philadelphia Phantom fans. The private luxury boxes glowed with ambient lighting above them, filled with executives in tailored suits sipping thousand-dollar scotch, a far cry from Jax's childhood watching hockey through chain-link fencing at the local rink.

Jax Thompson tapped his stick twice against the polished boards before vaulting over in a smooth, practiced motion. Their lead was razor-thin—2-1 with eight minutes left in the third—and the Phantoms were getting desperate. Desperate teams took risks. Desperate players made dangerous choices.

"Keep your fuckin' head up, kid," Jax muttered to Ethan Reeves as the rookie center glided past him toward the face-off circle. The nineteen-year-old first-round draft pick had the hands of a surgeon and the situational awareness of a goldfish.

"Thompson, I need you screening the goalie," Coach Vicky barked from behind him. "Norris, Volkov, and Reeves on the rush. Chenofski, quarterback from the point. Make this count, boys."

The face-off was clean—Kane winning it back to Oliver Chenofski, who settled the puck with a tap of his stick. The Chill's power play shifted into its familiar rhythm, the five ice blue jerseys moving in synchronized motion across the freshly resurfaced ice, blades carving clean arcs that gleamed under the arena's LED spotlight system.

Jax planted his six-foot-four, 225-pound frame directly in front of the Phantoms' goaltender, ignoring the defender's cross-check against his lower back. His job was simple: be immovable, block the goalie's vision, and clean up any garbage that might present themselves.

From his position, he watched Dmitri and Kane execute their tic-tac-toe passing, eventually finding Ethan unguarded at the back door. The rookie buried the biscuit in the open net with a flick of his wrists, and the arena erupted.

3-1 Chill.

Jax allowed himself a small smile as he bumped fists with his teammates during the celebration. The kid was finding his groove. Two points tonight already.

"Nice wheels, Rookie," he said, patting Ethan's helmet.

The smile was wiped from his face moments later when, on the very next shift, he watched Brady Wilson—the Phantoms' notoriously dirty center—line up Ethan from across the ice.

Ethan, celebrating his goal and admiring a pass instead of keeping his head up, never saw it coming.

Wilson launched himself, elbow raised, and caught the rookie directly in the face. The sickening crack echoed across the ice as Ethan crumpled, blood already pooling beneath him.

The crowd gasped. The referee's whistle blew.

And something in Jax's brain clicked into that familiar, cold place.

His vision tunneled as he crossed the ice in three powerful strides. Wilson was still standing over Ethan, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, when Jax grabbed him by the jersey and spun him around.

The moment his fist connected with Wilson's jaw, he knew he'd crossed a line.

Not because the Phantoms' center hadn't deserved it—he totally did for the cheap shot—but because something fundamental had shifted inside Jax. The familiar surge of adrenaline that usually accompanied the satisfying crunch of knuckles on bone was replaced by a hollow weariness that settled deep in his chest. Each blow landed with technical perfection, but the savage joy that once accompanied violence had drained away, leaving only the mechanical execution of a job he'd performed countless times.

Jax had spent eight years in the league making other players fear him. It was his job. The Charm City Chill paid him to be the monster under the bed, the boogeyman who made opposing players think twice about fucking around.

But as he sat in the sin bin, blood dripping from his split knuckles onto his pants, he watched the viral moment replay on the jumbotron. Seeing himself launching over the sprawled rookie, fists flying in a blur of righteous fury—all he felt was tired. Bone-deep tired, the kind that seeps into your marrow and makes you question every choice that led you here.

The crowd was different, though. As the replay showed his flurry of punches connecting with Wilson's face, the stands erupted. Half the arena stood, howling their approval, cell phones raised to capture the moment. The other half booed with equal ferocity. He'd seen the jerseys with his number before—fans who came just to see him unleash hell on ice. Kids wearing shirts with his nickname: The Butcher of Baltimore. What did it say about him that his career highlight reel was just a series of broken bodies and bloodied ice?

"Thompson! Get your head out of your ass and back in the game!" Coach Vicky's voice cut through his thoughts as the penalty clock ticked down to zero. Her sharp hazel eyes caught his as he exited the box, communicating volumes. Light 'em up, but be smart about it.

The final minutes of the third period were a blur. The Chill managed to hold onto their one-goal lead, largely thanks to Liam Castillo standing on his head in the net. When the final horn sounded, Jax felt none of the usual satisfaction of beating their bitter rivals. Instead, he cut a path for the locker room, avoiding both teammates and media.

"Thompson. My office. Now." Coach Vicky didn't wait for a response as she strode past him.

Jax peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey, wincing as the movement aggravated what was sure to be a spectacular bruise forming along his ribs. Dmitri caught his eye from across the room, giving him a sympathetic nod.

"You feed Wilson some knuckle sandwich, yes? Is good." The Russian winger's gap-toothed smile was earnest.

"It was fucking dirty hit," Ethan added quietly from his stall, his young face already swelling where Wilson's elbow had caught him.

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