Sin Bin (Blades Hockey Book 2)

by Maria Luis

  “Wait, you did it in the laundry room?” she asks, gasping for air as we sit on the floor ten minutes later, our backs against the wall and our legs outstretched. I’ve kicked off my stilettos so my toes can enjoy their freedom. “That’s insane.”

  “It was hot,” I tell her with a small sigh. “Hands down the best sex I’ve ever had. Well, until it was over.”

  “And then he went back to being cold?”

  “Or, to use your other word, he went back to being stiff.”

  “Insane,” she mutters again, shaking her head like she just can’t believe it. She’s a good egg, the kind of person I’d kill to have as a friend. Propping her elbow on a bent knee, she picks at a torn hole in her jeans. “But, hey, of the two of us, I think your story takes the cake.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re at least dating the guy you hooked up with. I’m back in the same position I was in the first place, with him as a client. It’s like Groundhog Day. I swore that I woke up from this dream a year ago, and now I’m right back in it again.”

  “Maybe you should shag him one more time. Do it and be done with him.”

  She sounds just like Andre.

  Without warning, the locker room door slips open and the Blades exit in groups. It’s a sight to see, really. Hot man after hot man files out. For the most part, their hair is wet, slicked back, and they’re decked out in jeans and T-shirts.

  “You hitting up The Box after this, right?” one guy says, and I recognize him instantly as Marshall Hunt, Ladies’ Man Extraordinaire.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there,” another guy responds. “Going to swing by my old lady’s house first, though. Want to say g’night to her and the kid before I meet you for a beer.”

  Hunt snorts derisively. “Jesus, man, you’re whipped.”

  “No. I just love my girls.”

  “Yeah? Then when are you going to put a ring on it, dude?”

  They move out of earshot before I can hear the rest of the conversation. Beside me, Charlie jumps up, swiping at her jeans as she cranes her head, no doubt looking for her hotshot boyfriend.

  Time to get out of here.

  With a prayer on my lips that Andre will be the very last player out of the locker room, I snag the straps of my stilettos and begin stuffing my sore feet back into them.

  “Zo?”

  Dammit.

  A pair of boots enters my peripheral, and then my gaze is climbing his legs, pausing at the noticeable bulge at his crotch (don’t judge me!), and skating upward. I don’t make it past his broad chest because his knees pop! pop! as he crouches down in front of me.

  Black eyes meet mine. “What’re you doing here, Zoe?”

  Setting myself up for inevitable heartbreak, it seems.

  I drop my head back against the wall in defeat. “Gwen invited me to the game.”

  “And you came?” He sounds surprised, not that I blame him.

  “She promised me that there might be sponsors around to preach my cause to, but, alas, no one was there.”

  Andre doesn’t laugh at my theatrical tone. “That doesn’t explain why you’re down here, by the locker room.”

  “Would you believe me if I said that I had something important to discuss with you?”

  “No.” His damp head ducks as he reaches out to touch my ankle. But my ankle is bare, my stiletto still dangling from my toes, and I feel that one brush of his finger like he’s wrapped his entire hand around my heart and not my foot. “How is this?” he asks, not going so far as to tap the bone, though he does apply slight pressure. “Did you put ice on it like I told you?”

  My breath hitches. “I-I didn’t have any.”

  “Your dad owns a restaurant,” he says, his mouth barely lifting into a smile. His eyes, though, gleam with amusement. “You really going to tell me that he had nothing available?”

  “Yes,” I lie, shamelessly turning my foot so that he has more access to touch me. If he wants.

  Shameless.

  I know. It’s bad.

  Maybe he catches my not-so-subtle signal because his palm skims my foot and then clasps my ankle. The heat from his hand has my toes flexing, my fingers digging into the floor on either side of my hips. I look up, meet his gaze, and—

  “Yo! Beaumont, my man, are you coming with us?”

  The spell, if there even was one, breaks.

  Andre’s hand falls from my foot, and he straightens to his full height. “I planned to head home,” he tells his teammate, a guy I don’t immediately recognize from the roster pages. “Get in an early night before we hit the road tomorrow.”

  Another player comes up beside the first guy, and slings an arm around his shoulder. “Don’t bail on us, Beaumont.” The man’s blue eyes dip to where I’m still sitting on the floor, trying to lace up my heels. “Ah, I see. You have a lady friend for the evening.”

  Finally, I manage to hook myself back up. I’m struggling to my feet, clutching the wall, when Andre claps a hand around my elbow and pulls me up. Which doesn’t help my case at all when I say, “I’m not his lady friend.”

  Andre’s teammates exchange a look. “Yeah, sure,” the first one says.

  “She’s my publicist,” Andre says in a hard voice. “That’s it.”

  If my heart does a weird little squeeze at his words, I do my best to ignore it. I duck my head. “I should probably be heading out anyway. Andre, I’ll see you on Monday?”

  Another voice enters the fray.

  “Zoe!” Charlie calls out, bouncing over to me with Duke Harrison trailing behind her. I stare at him, a little stunned. He’s more attractive in person than he even is on TV. Blond hair, blue eyes. A solid build that speaks of hours spent in the gym. No wonder Charlie did him on a rooftop—I would have too.

  Charlie’s hand waves in front of my face, and heat rises to my cheeks. “Why don’t you come with us?” She snags my hand and gives it a little tug. “We’re hitting up The Box. It’s a tradition.”

  “Zoe is heading home.” This comes from Andre.

  Something about his remote, icy tone snaps my back straight. “I’d love to join,” I tell Charlie. “Are you guys taking a cab?”

  Masculine fingers wrap around my wrist. “I thought you were heading home?” Andre’s thumb brushes the center of my palm. “Remember?”

  I slip my hand from his grasp. “Sure, I do. But Charlie and I are new friends, and it’d be rude of me to say no.” I lean forward, waiting until he does the same. “Now, aren’t you heading home so you can see one of your women? Don’t let us stop you.”

  “Jesus, Zoe.” He rears back, scrubbing a hand over his hard jawline. Mouth flattening, he growls, “All right. Fine. I’ll go.”

  My eyes narrow on him. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

  “It is now,” he tells me stiffly. Before I can even get another word in, he adds, “You’ll ride with me.”

  He doesn’t even give me an opportunity to say no.

  “Another round of wine, please!” Charlie shouts two hours later. She’s seated next to me at The Box, which is a hole in the wall if I’ve ever seen one. Dark walls and dim lighting give off the impression that the bar is smaller than it is. Seated at the end of a long hallway from the main part of the establishment, this area of The Box is apparently exclusive only to the Blades and their guests.

  If we’re being honest, it’s pretty much a quarantined area for hot-as-hell hockey players. They mosey about this way and that, lounging on couches or shooting pool. Some stick around the bar, talking loudly as they argue who had the better stick play for the evening. One guy comes up to me and, without prelude, begins to show me pictures of his baby daughter.

  Cute kid, but I still have no idea who he is.

  One other thing is for certain about The Box—the liquor selection is good. Maybe too good.

  I push my empty glass away with a groan. My skin feels sticky, and my throat scratchy from one too many glasses of chardonnay. “I think I’ve had too much wine.”

  Charlie w
aves away my worries. “One more,” she sing-songs, before tapping me on the nose with the kind of familiarity that comes from bonding while being tipsy. “Do you really want to go home with Andre right now?”

  At the mention of him, I twist around and find him seated with some of his teammates at a table. Poker chips are laid out before them and empty tumblers litter the table. Even though I can’t quite make out his expression, I have the sneaking suspicion that he isn’t focused on the game . . . he’s watching me.

  I sigh. Probably because he feels responsible for my safety.

  On the way over, he said no less than three times not to trust any of his teammates. “They’re all cold motherfuckers, Zoe. Unless you want to wake up tomorrow morning alone and naked, I’d suggest avoiding them.”

  Something tells me that he’s the coldest motherfucker of them all—excuse my French.

  In my attempt to get a good look at him, my butt inches a little too close to the edge of my barstool. There’s a split-second moment where I’m convinced I’m about to go sailing to the ground. My arms pinwheel, hands searching for purchase. At the very last second, I catch myself on the bar just as I see Andre lurch to his feet, like he’s prepared to come to my rescue.

  How cute.

  I offer him a two-finger salute and turn to Charlie. “I have a problem,” I announce.

  “Do you?” Charlie scoots her butt around on the barstool so she’s facing me. “Tell me.”

  “I’m not sure . . . ”

  She pats my hand consolingly. “You’ll feel better.”

  “Well, it’s just”—my hand gestures in the air frivolously—“how do you teach someone to be more . . . open?”

  “Like, emotionally?” Charlie asks, studying me carefully. “Girl, you’re speaking to the choir. Duke is like a clam.” She darts a glance over her shoulder and then whispers behind one hand, “Don’t tell him I said that. He’s doing much better, and I don’t want to ruin his progress.”

  That makes me smile. She and Duke are the kind of couple you can’t help but love and hate at the same time. He was quick to purchase her a drink, and just as quick to press a kiss to her forehead and murmur, “Have fun with your friend, sweetheart,” before heading off with the guys.

  Like I said, cute.

  Andre Beaumont isn’t cut from the same cloth.

  Snagging the stem of my wine glass, I swivel around and slouch against the bar. Swirling the wine around, I take a small sip and wait for the man I’m watching to notice me.

  It doesn’t take long.

  Andre’s chin jerks up as if sensing my stare. For a moment, it’s like no one else exists in The Box. I sip my wine, and he mimics my move, wrapping a hand around his tumbler and drinking what I know is likely to be a whiskey and coke.

  I don’t break eye contact as I primly cross one leg over the other.

  He doesn’t break eye contact as he says something to the guys at his table and then scrapes his chair back.

  Neither of us breaks eye contact as he draws closer, his long-legged gait eating up the distance to my barstool. As he does so, an idea brews in my head. It’s perfect, perfectly ridiculous, and when Andre stops in front of me, I burst, “Where’s Marshall Hunt?”

  Andre’s brows furrow and an unnamed emotion darkens his gaze. “Excuse me?”

  I peer over his shoulder. “Marshall. Is he here?”

  There’s a small pause, and then, “He’s in the back. I think.”

  Brilliant. “Will you grab him for me?”

  “Will I—” Andre cuts off, downing the rest of his cocktail in one smooth move. He plants the glass on the counter by my elbow, and he’s so close that I can smell the sandalwood off his skin. “You know what? Fine, I will go get him. “

  I smile brightly at him. “I’ll be here waiting!”

  Though he looks on the verge of strangling me, he gives a curt nod and stalks away. Beside me, Charlie leans so far over, I worry she might topple from her stool.

  “You’re baiting the lion,” she whispers in a voice that’s not at all a whisper. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Not at all,” I tell her truthfully.

  I am, what some would call, flying by the seat of my pants. But I wait anyway, making small talk with Charlie and the bartender until a sullen Andre comes strolling back toward the bar, Marshall Hunt in tow.

  Up close, Hunt looks just as American Golden Boy as he does on TV. Light brown hair, indeterminable colored eyes in the muted bar room. He’s big without being massive like Duke Harrison or Andre. When Hunt meets my gaze, the corners of his eyes crease with humor, and he leans in for a kiss to my cheek.

  “I heard I was summoned,” he says, “though Beaumont here wouldn’t tell me why.”

  Andre says nothing, and Marshall Hunt visibly shudders.

  Yes, this will be perfect.

  I take another long pull from my wine, then pop the glass back on the bar top. Turning back to the men, I say, “That’s because I didn’t tell him. Marshall, I’ve heard you’re a bit of a player.”

  His eyes go wide. Andre thumps him on the back. “Hell,” Hunt mutters after a moment, “warn a man before you catch him off guard.”

  “Sorry,” I say without being all that sorry. No, this is perfect. He is perfect. “My point is that you’re a ladies’ man. But the ladies love you. The media loves you. You’re like . . . a unicorn.”

  Andre lets loose a groan. “I think you’ve had too much to drink, Zoe.” Softly, he presses his inner wrist to my forehead, as if checking my temperature. It feels . . . well, dammit, it feels quite lovely actually. “You’re hot.”

  Charlie leans over, one hand outstretched for a high-five. “You got that right, Beaumont. Our Zoe is beautifulll.”

  Andre slides her a hard glare, and I leap at the opportunity he’s presented me. Batting his hand away, I announce, “See! That look right there. You have to stop scaring people, Andre. This is why Marshall is perfect.”

  “Because I don’t scare people?” Hunt asks, his voice sounding every shade of confused. “Should I be insulted?”

  “No!” In the far, far corner of my brain, I realize that I’ve had way too much to drink. But whether it’s the wine or the fact that, for the first time in months, I’m hanging out with people my own age, I feel happy. Even if I am earning myself a spot on Andre’s mile-long shit list. Pressing my shoulders back, I say, “Marshall, I need you to teach Andre how to be the kind of guy everyone loves.”

  “Jesus, Zoe.”

  No surprise on who says that, but I ignore the man simmering beside me. This is for the greater good—Andre’s greater good.

  “Andre, pretend that Marshall is a woman you’re hitting on.”

  For a moment, there’s only silence, but boy, is it substantial. Hunt comes up sputtering from his beer, Charlie keels over the bar, rolling with laughter, and Andre . . . Andre turns to me, his dark brows drawn when he growls, “Are you serious right now?”

  “Yes,” I tell him. “Charlie and I will be the judges—right, Charlie?” Beside me, Charlie throws up her hand to order another round of wine. I take her silence as confirmation. I fold my arms over my chest, trying not to wobble too hard in my seat. “We’ll be the judges. Then, once you’ve gotten it exactly right, we’ll head up to the front part of the bar and let you loose on real women.”

  “I’m gonna need another fucking beer for this,” Hunt mutters.

  Less than five minutes later, we’re all in position, and, sure enough, we’ve gathered a crowd of eager onlookers. Duke sits behind his girlfriend, his hand clutching Charlie’s on top of her knee. A few of the other players have pulled up chairs, the poker game forgotten in the face of watching Andre make a fool out of himself. The chalkboard that sat behind the bar now sits in my lap, so that I can tally the number of times Charlie and I feel as though Andre has done something right.

  Clapping my hands together loud enough to end the chatter, I say, “Okay! Our first round will begin . . . now! An
dre”—I point a green piece of chalk at him—“you’ve just walked into a bar and noticed our beautiful, lovely lady right here. What do you do?”

  Andre cuts a glare at Hunt, who is now fully invested in the scheme. He presses his chin to the tops of his clasped hands, and flutters his eyelashes outrageously, making his teammates roar with laughter.

  “Find someone better looking,” Andre grunts.

  “Wrong!” I make a bzzing sound with my teeth. “Try again.”

  With a little sigh of defeat, Andre pinches the bridge of his nose. “I would walk up to her.”

  “Baby steps,” Charlie says, “very good baby steps. Now, if you were doing this as your regular self, what would be your next step?”

  Andre doesn’t have the chance to defend himself.

  One of his teammates, Jackson, I think, points his beer in Andre’s direction. “He’d ask if she had a boyfriend or a husband.”

  My nose scrunches. “You ask that? That’s the first thing you say?”

  “It’s not—” Breaking off, Andre rakes his fingers through his hair. “I don’t say that every time, but sometimes it helps to know whether I’m barking up the wrong tree. It saves time.”

  “Because all you want to do is get into her pants?” With a shake of my head, I look over to Hunt. “What do you do?”

  Marshall Hunt seems only too pleased to offer his take on picking up a girl. “Well, it’s a bit of a science, y’know? First, I try to get her attention, see if she’s even interested. Then, once we’ve been staring at each other for a bit—”

  “Did you have to choose fucking Romeo for this shit?” someone shouts from the back of the bar. “We’ll be here ’til morning!”

  “Dude!” Hunt shouts back, pointing his finger at where the voice came from. “She asked. Don’t be jealous that you get laid once a year, McDermott. The only stick of yours getting action lately is sure as hell not the one attached to your pelvis.”

  Everyone laughs, throwing up beers and cocktails in a toast.

  “Fuck you, Hunt!”

  “You’re not my type, McDermott!” With that Hunt, turns back around, his handsome face once again a mask of pleasantness. “Anyway, now that we’ve got McDermott’s virgin status out of the way, what I was saying is that I make my move slowly. It’s methodical. I want this woman to know that I’m coming. Let the anticipation build and all that. When I finally approach her, she’s practically begging for me to sit down.”