Page 62 of Sin Bin Daddies
I skate closer to the boards and she lifts the massive cartoonish head off, her flushed face appearing, strands of her blonde hair sticking to her forehead.
“Having fun?”
“Yep,” she says. “Best job ever—just running around, hyping people up. Plus, I get free snacks. Anyway, good luck out there.”
I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck. “Won’t need it.”
She just laughs, setting the oversized Frostbite head back in place, and jogs off toward the crowd of people.
Yeah. Tonight’s gonna be a good fucking game.
The first period is a war. The Cubs come out swinging, pushing us hard.
Beau—our top center—takes the opening face-off, fighting for control, but the Cubs play dirty, hooking and slashing every chance they get. Mason, our goalie, keeps us in the game, blocking shot after shot, his focus razor-sharp.
I take a brutal hit against the boards, pain flaring down my ribs. Doesn’t matter. I keep moving, keep pressing.
Midway through the second, Ford dives for a blocker-side save. He twists in midair—wrong. Too much torque, not enough space, and the crack that echoes off the ice is loud enough to make my stomach drop.
“Shit.”
I’m skating toward him before I even know what I’m doing.
Ford’s on his knees, one glove off, clutching his wrist. His jaw’s clenched, but he’s pale under the lights.
“You good?” I crouch beside him.
He huffs through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”
Bullshit.
The ref calls for the trainers. Ford waves them off like the stubborn bastard he is.
“I’m finishing this game,” he growls.
Coach Ace looks ready to throw a water bottle at his head but just mutters, “Fucking idiots,” and calls for play to resume.
Classic.
The third period is pure chaos.
We’re down by one with five minutes left, and the Cubs are relentless, their defense tightening, their goalie blocking every shot. My muscles are screaming, sweat dripping down my face, but I keep pushing.
Then, with twenty seconds left, Blaze makes a break.
He cuts through the defense, flicks the puck toward me, and I don’t hesitate. I wind up, sending a one-timer screaming toward the net.
It hits the top corner.
The horn blares. The crowderupts.
We fuckingwin.
I slam into Blaze, the entire team piling onto the ice, celebrating. My chest is heaving, my adrenaline still surging as I glance up—straight into the stands.
Madeline is there, still in her mascot costume, but she’s got the stupid Frostbite head tucked under her arm, a wide grin on her face.
I can’t help it. I grin back.
