Sin Bin (Blades Hockey Book 2)

by Maria Luis

  Huh. That does sound very methodical, which I suppose is the reason it works. Even just sitting here, I’m feeling a little turned on by Marshall Hunt. It’s his eyes, I think. Now that he’s closer, I can see that they are a pewter gray, slightly mysterious, but open and guileless. Unlike Andre’s black-as-night gaze that hints of unspoken secrets.

  I reach out and poke Andre in the side. “What do you say to that?”

  “I think I’m in my own version of hell,” he tells me, lifting his whiskey and coke to his mouth. “You seriously want me to play this up?”

  I meet his gaze. “I want you to be nice.”

  His mouth flattens and the emotion in his dark eyes turns unreadable. Have I hurt his feelings? I wouldn’t think it possible, but from the way he stoically sets his tumbler beside me . . . maybe I have. It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize, to blame the wine, but then his fingers wrap around my bicep as he gently tugs me off the barstool. The chalkboard goes to the bar top.

  “Fine.” Releasing me, Andre steps back, already turning toward the door. Over his shoulder, he says, “But you’re my target, Zoe, not Hunt.”

  My sloshed brain realizes that this is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. “Andre! What do you mean, I’m your target?”

  “Exactly as I said.” He twists around but doesn’t stop moving. He casually walks backward, as if arrogant enough to believe that nothing will trip him up. “When I come back in here, I’ll be coming straight for you. Be prepared.”

  Just like that, he walks out of The Box.

  I think I may need another drink.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ANDRE

  I’m going to fucking regret this.

  Zoe Mackenzie has been a thorn in my side for two years. She was a thorn when she was my PR agent back in Detroit; she was a thorn when she wasn’t even in my life, and all I had was the memory of her to haunt me every night. And now that she’s back in it? Now that we’ve come full circle, like the last year of radio silence never even happened?

  She’s driving me crazy.

  Every last rational thought in my brain is telling me to walk out of the bar. To go home and get my ass to bed before I do something I’ll regret.

  But the irrational part of me, the part of me that doesn’t care about professionalism or emotional boundaries wants to storm back into the bar and prove that Marshall-fucking-Hunt doesn’t have what it takes to satisfy her.

  I do—only I do.

  And just like that night a year ago when I kissed her like it was the last thing I’d ever do, I’m tempted to pull a repeat and do it all over again. That night a year ago, it sure felt like my life depended on her kiss, on her.

  And right now . . .

  I drop my forehead against the door that leads into the exclusive area of The Box, and inhale sharply through my nose. I shove aside the ridiculous slice of disappointment that she doesn’t want me. She’s smart on that score. Damn smart. Unlike me, the King of Bad Decisions, she’s making a good one by choosing a guy who isn’t running from his own shadow. Zoe will always be better off without me—not that she ever realized that fact.

  She’s the woman who’ll bring you Advil when you’re hungover. The kind of woman willing to shoot the shit over a game of pool. The kind of woman who’ll make you forget your own name.

  The kind of woman who doesn’t need to be dragged down by excess emotional baggage like mine.

  Curling one hand into a fist, I push away from the door. She wants me to be nice? She wants me to be like Marshall-goddamn-Hunt?

  Done.

  My fingers grasp the doorknob and yank it open. I force myself to slow my gait as I enter the backroom where my teammates are waiting for me to make a damn fool out of myself. Any other day, and I’d give that to them—but not tonight, not when the woman I’ve been dreaming about for a week straight wants me to be someone else.

  “Here he is, ladies and gents,” Jackson, a left wing, hollers from the bar, “King Sin Bin!”

  The nickname rubs raw. While enforcers in the league are certainly a dying breed, the stigma hasn’t quite faded. Goon. Meathead. Impulsive. Only the impulsive bit rings true for me, and it’s something I’ve worked on over the years. Think before you drop gloves. Think before you smash a guy into the boards. For the most part, I’m leashed tight on the ice, only breaking into a fight when the situation calls for it.

  Still doesn’t matter—guys see me coming for them and they immediately turn tail. My reputation for having a quick temper and even quicker fists precedes me.

  My mouth twists. If they think that I’m terrifying, then they don’t know shit.

  But Zoe isn’t scared of me. Against all odds, the dark-haired, dark-eyed girl from Detroit chooses to push me instead. She never stops; she never quits. It’s what drew me to her before, and it’s sure as hell what attracts me to her still.

  One taste will be enough.

  Yeah, right. When it comes to Zoe Mackenzie, I’m running myself in circles trying to keep to the plan, to stay out of her lane.

  I zero-in on her seated at the bar. As usual, she’s decked out in a form-fitting skirt and a top that makes her look like she’s got bigger breasts than she does. Her legs are crossed demurely at the knees.

  She looks pristine, despite her tipsiness. Pristine and oh-so-innocent.

  The innocence is a lie.

  She lifts a brow, as though daring me to come forward.

  The lanes blur, becoming one.

  Just one taste.

  I school my features, force a casual smile to my face as I saunter toward her.

  “This stool is taken,” she tells me when I step up next to her at the bar. My eyes narrow on her. Doesn’t she realize she’s playing a dangerous game?

  My foot hooks the wooden rung, and I tug it away from the bar anyway. “Is that so?” I ask, voice low, only for her. “Girl’s night?”

  Her gaze darts to Duke’s girl and then flits back to my face. “Yes.”

  “I’m sure they won’t mind if I steal their pretty friend for a few, eh?” Without giving her time to argue, I take a seat. My elbow rests on the bar, my hand hesitating dangerously close to the curve of her breasts.

  She sucks in her bottom lip, and I feel that one breath all the way down to my cock.

  “Celebrating anything tonight?” I ask. “A birthday or a promotion?” My thumb brushes the fabric of her shirt. “Maybe an . . . engagement?”

  For a second, so brief I can’t be sure it happened, she presses into my touch. She’s definitely wearing a padded bra—not that I give a shit. Back in Detroit, I’d never had the chance to see her fully naked. Not the top half of her, anyway. And since I’ve always been a bit of a breast man . . . it’s my turn to suck in a deep breath.

  What would she do if I leaned in and kissed her? Same as the other day in the elevator, probably—I deserved that rejection, even though I hadn’t meant to insult her.

  But then she arches away, her attention skirting past me to my caveman teammates who are watching us.

  She leans in, crooking her finger. Her breath is hot on my ear when she hisses, “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “You know what.”

  Do I? Maybe I’m totally reading her wrong. In the elevator, before she jumped away, she’d wanted my touch. I know it. Maybe it’s the fact that we’re in front of the Blades—understandable, as they’re a bunch of assholes and I am her client. But they’re all two sheets to the wind right now, and I doubt they’ll even remember this little episode.

  Another thought hits me, and this one packs quite the punch. Not in a good way. “Am I not acting enough like a gentleman for you, Zoe?” The words come out huskier than I intend them to. “Not living up to the charming hype of Marshall?”

  She rears back. “You’re not even trying. You just waltzed over, used your sexy voice—”

  I feel a grin pull at my mouth. “I have a sexy voice?”

  Zoe promptly ignores me. “This
is your problem,” she rages, fisting her hands in her lap. “You can’t bother to drop the macho act for even five minutes. It’s all, I’m too much of a badass to be vulnerable or emotions are overrated. Newsflash, Mr. Beaumont, not everyone is an emotional ice block like you are.”

  I freeze—just like the ice she accuses me of being.

  My vision blurs. Images I don’t want to see. Memories I don’t want to recall.

  No one realizes that I’ve been living in a self-made penalty box for years now. Since Hannah walked out on me. Since I gave in to the temptation that was, and still is, Zoe Mackenzie.

  And when I take a desperate, steadying breath, I act strictly upon an impulse formed by anger.

  I wrap a strong hand around the back of her neck, gently tugging her close, until our lips are nearly touching. Her eyes are wide and blinking rapidly, and I take advantage of her momentary silence by adjusting my grip, cupping her face, gently caressing her cheek with the pad of my thumb.

  “Is this why you didn’t want me to kiss you the other day?” I murmur softly, skimming my gaze over her features. “Because I haven’t spilled all of my secrets to you?” I take her chin, shifting it up so that I can press my lips to her neck. She shudders under my touch. “Do you want me to tell you my fears and my worries? Rip open my wounds so that you can take pride in healing them, in healing the big, bad Andre Beaumont?” I release her chin. Drop my fingers to her collarbone, where I peel her shirt away from her skin and dust another kiss to her neck. “Is that what you want, honey? What you’ve always wanted?”

  “Yes,” she breathes out, her eyes squeezed shut, “yes.”

  I don’t think she even realizes what she’s said, and, with an acute pang, I know that I’ve taken this too far. The jeering from my teammates has quieted to crickets. My heart thunders in my chest, an identical twin to Zoe’s pulse leaping to life beneath my palm.

  The part of me that’s been craving her presence, her spirit, her, for a year, demands that I apologize for my asshole behavior. For exposing her like this in front of strangers or even potential future clients.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  I pull back at the same time her pretty, dark eyes peel open. There’s no hiding the embarrassment swirling in their depths, nor the hatred.

  I am the worst kind of asshole.

  Fuck.

  “Zoe—”

  “Don’t touch me.” Her voice is a quiet crack in the otherwise quiet bar. “D-don’t—” Her lids slam shut, her chin turning away. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”

  I reach for her purse off the bar. “I’ll drive you.”

  She gives a sharp shake of her head. “I don’t . . . I don’t want to go anywhere with you, y-you bastard.”

  Little does she know that’s a more accurate term for me than she could have ever chosen. Bastard. Asshole. Cold. I’ve heard it all. To be balls to the wall honest, the words don’t bother me when it comes from the general public. But falling from her lips . . . it’s a sharp knife to an already festering wound.

  Tears bloom, turning her eyes bloodshot red. Another stab—this one right to the heart. “Let me drive you, Zoe. We can sit in silence. We don’t have to say a single word. Just let me take you home.”

  Let me atone for my sins.

  Whether it’s the fact that we’re currently the center of attention or something else, she agrees with a short, barely-there nod. It’s all I need to rise from the stool and to quickly pay our tab.

  In silence, we walk out of The Box side by side. None of my teammates reach out to fist bump me good-bye, and not a single soul gives even a short wave. They know I’ve gone too far this time. Hell, I know I’ve gone too far this time.

  I meant what I said though—if she wants to sit in silence during the drive to her parent’s house, that’s what we’ll do.

  She steals in front of me as we exit the dark hallway that leads into the main area of The Box. But instead of moving toward the front door, she swivels unexpectedly and struts straight over to the bar.

  I catch up to her as she two-finger salutes the bartender and orders a vodka and tonic.

  “What are you doing?” My voice is low, because I have no interest in attracting the attention of the bar’s patrons. While The Box caters to Blades players all day and every day in the back of the establishment, this general area of the bar is not our scene.

  There are puck bunnies galore, all hoping for the chance to slip into the rear and into one of our beds.

  “Zoe.”

  Dark eyes snap in my direction. “What does it look like I’m doing, Mr. Beaumont?”

  On any other day, I’m a diehard fan of her sass. Today it worries me. “It looks like you’re drinking to forget something.”

  She touches her finger to her nose, as though indicating you got it. “You’d be correct on that.”

  I shouldn’t ask. Doesn’t mean I don’t, though. “What are you trying to forget?”

  Her gaze leisurely eats me up. She pauses at my mouth, and I’d be lying if I said that one look doesn’t turn me on in five different ways. I can still recall her taste as vividly as though I were kissing her now. And I can sure as hell remember what it felt like with her legs wrapped around my waist and her nails biting into my back.

  I lost myself in her that night. Drowned my emotions and the memories and all of the fear into the feeling of her body moving against mine.

  Zoe’s gaze leaves me completely. As she plucks her tumbler of vodka off the bar, she murmurs, “You, Andre. I’m trying to forget you.”

  My stomach lurches.

  This woman—she’s the only one who can wreck me. One reason of the many that I’ve stayed away from her for so long. My life in the last year and a half has been nothing but turmoil, and I don’t need more.

  But neither does she need my drama.

  “Let me take you home, Zo.” I pull the tumbler from her hand, returning it to the bar, far out of her reach. “You’re going to regret drinking so much in the morning.”

  Her dark eyes are pure fire when they touch on me. “You don’t have a say on what I do with my life.”

  “I know.”

  “If I want to do five more shots, I can do that, too.”

  I nod slowly. “I know.”

  She heaves a sigh. “I don’t really want to do five more shots, though.”

  This time, I stay quiet, giving her time for the anger to dissipate.

  Our stand-off feels like it lasts minutes, but probably only exists in actual seconds. She rises from the stool, gathering her things, and without a backward glance to see if I’ll follow, stalks out of the bar.

  But I do follow.

  I’m hot on her heels, wishing that I could notice anything besides the tight curve of her backside in her slim skirt. Does she recall the way I removed her skirt a year ago, so slowly that by the time the material hit the floor, she was begging for me to take her?

  I do.

  I remember every last bit of that night.

  “Where did you park again?” she asks, pausing just outside of The Box’s front door.

  “You don’t remember?”

  She bites down on her lower lip in consternation. “I’m drunk, Andre.”

  Enough said.

  Clasping her elbow, I steer her the opposite way, to where I parked two blocks over. In her defense, she doesn’t wobble on her heels. The street is dark, thanks to a lack of working streetlights, and the farther we walk from The Box, the sounds of life become muted, too.

  By the time we make it to the car, there’s only the sounds of her heels clipping against the cement and the thundering of my heart in my chest.

  “I can get it myself,” she snips, when I try to open the passenger’s side door for her. She wrestles her way into my car, plopping down with little grace, so that the hem of her skirt lifts up her slim thighs.

  I swear, this woman was put on this earth to tempt me.

  “No problem,” I mutter, closing the door after her, a
nd then getting in on the driver’s side.

  I’d like to say that we launch into conversation after that. That we somehow find ourselves as we were before we kissed, before I knew that her body was my version of heaven.

  Not the case.

  Instead, we spend the next ten minutes in silence on the way to her house in Somerville. I palm the wheel, and pull into her driveway. There aren’t any lights on in the house.

  “I’m sorry.”

  In the shadows of my car, I see her head whip around to me. “What?”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Apologizing has never been my “thing.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reiterate, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “For what I did back at The Box . . . for embarrassing you.”

  “Andre, want to know something?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer, just plows forward. “Your little stunt in front of your teammates is nothing compared to what I went through last year.”

  I know.

  The words almost leave me, but I damn well know that they’re inadequate. I have no excuses for leaving her out in the cold the way I did in Detroit. My only defense—and it’s a weak one at that—is that I was so consumed by what was going on in my life that there was no room to consider everyone else.

  More than that, though, was the underlying realization that I was no good for Zoe Mackenzie. Not then and certainly not now.

  But you want her.

  Always. I’ve always wanted her.

  And that makes me a shitty person.

  Her echoing laugh is caustic. “Still nothing to say to that?” She chuffs harshly. “Of course you don’t. King Sin Bin would never lower himself to talk about emo—”

  Fuck that.

  “You really want to talk about this right now, Zoe?”

  “You’re never going to talk about it otherwise,” she snaps in return. “Maybe if you think I’m too drunk to remember, you’ll finally open up for once.”