Sin Bin (Blades Hockey Book 2)

by Maria Luis

  Coworkers. Friends, at the most. That’s all.

  Throwing my legs over the side of the bench, I straighten into a seated position.

  I need protein, a shower, and a beer—not necessarily in that order.

  With slow, tempered movements, I come off the bench and stretch my beaten limbs. Pop! Pop! My shoulders creak, the tendons snapping back into position like an elastic band that’s seen better days.

  Which is a fair assessment of my body’s status quo.

  At thirty, I feel more like I’m sixty on any given day. Snagging my discarded T-shirt from the floor, I shrug it on over my head and head down the hallway of my two-story house. I don’t own the place, preferring instead to rent it out. When my career has been as unstable as it has been for the last two years, there’s no reason to shore up with a mortgage.

  My feet pad down the carpeted steps, the echoing pop! pops! alerting me to the fact that, like my shoulders, my knees are hating life too right about now.

  One more season.

  After that, I’ll take my ass down to the Caribbean and set up shop on a white-beached island, drinking Jose Cuervo until I can obliterate my thoughts for good.

  I’m busy picturing my life in Turks and Caicos when my doorbell rings. Feet slowing to a stop, I turn and head for the door instead. I had no plans for company—not that I usually do. The night at The Box with Zoe was an anomaly.

  My teammates tend to leave me be, unless I voluntarily place myself in their path. Once a week, I strap on my big boy pants and head down to The Box. It’s my three hours of bonding time, usually spent drinking one too many whiskeys and cokes, and pretending that I’m fine.

  That everything is fine.

  But none of the guys ever come to my house. To be honest, I’m not even sure they know where I live—unless they’ve turned Chatty Kathy with one of the white shirts and asked for my personal records.

  My hand clasps the doorknob, and with a single tug, I blink against the startling sunlight.

  Lust hits me straight in the gut.

  Goddammit.

  My eyes focus on Zoe’s face, and it takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral. Blank. Don’t let her see how much you want her here. If I scare her a little bit, that’s probably for the best. In a voice more husky than I intended, I say, “What are you doing here?”

  Her heart-shaped face tips up in defiance. It’s so like her, to go down arms swinging until she’s already six feet under. “Can’t I come to say hello?” she says, sounding sweet and demure and everything else that I know she isn’t.

  Zoe is as tough as I am, and just as sharp-tongued. Sure, she might play the innocent girl next door, but I’ve seen her in action. I’ve seen her work a crowd to get what she wants—I’ve experienced her working me. And while my cock might like to see her working me for another round, I know that sex isn’t the reason why she’s here.

  Not even after the way I stood up for her to her boss. The way he’d accused her of failing at her job had lit a fire inside of me. Zoe works harder than anyone I know—hell, since she’s taken me on as a client, she hasn’t stopped working.

  My hand lands on the doorframe, blocking her entry into my house. “You don’t say hello, Zoe,” I say, in reference to her greeting. “The last time you popped up unannounced we were in Detroit.”

  Her long black hair, which is tied back in one of those female hair clips, slips over her shoulder when she tilts her head. “I have some news.”

  “Yeah?” I murmur, my fingers digging into the wooden framework. “Have you decided that I’m a lost cause? I hear another sponsor pulled out.”

  It sucks, especially since Fame’s video has hit the national media circuit. While everyone fans over and points out my crotch in the speedo, there are less people commenting on the actual interview. On my attempt to be more personable, to open up for once. If Zoe sees the disappointment in my expression, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, her lips tip up in a smile that I don’t quite trust. “You did lose another one this morning, but I have a plan.”

  Zoe and “plans” go about as well together as kindling and fire. Straight up, her plans are more likely to combust than to put out the already blazing flames.

  I comb my fingers through my hair, and I tug at the strands in frustration. “Not another feature piece with Fame, right? My masculinity can take only so much blush, foundation, and concealer.”

  “Don’t forget the speedo.”

  Laughter climbs my throat. “Pretty sure there’s a certain part of me that will never forget that horror.”

  Her cheeks bloom with a pretty blush, and I’m not surprised at all when she changes the topic slightly. “I’m surprised you even know what concealer is.”

  I don’t, not really, but I know enough that it’s supposed to hide the dark circles under your eyes. I figure I’m a lost cause on that front, but only because sleep eludes me on a near-nightly basis.

  “Is this where I pretend I have no idea what you’re talking about to preserve my masculinity?” I say, leaning my shoulder against the frame to stare down at her. “I’d offer to prove it, but I’m not up for rejection today.”

  Her cheeks turn even more pink, and satisfaction flares through me. It never fails—teasing Zoe is the highlight of my day.

  Shifting side to side on her mile-high stilettos, she purses her lips. “Can we be professional for a moment?”

  I lift a brow, knowing it’ll drive her crazy. “I’m professional, Zoe.”

  “When it suits you.”

  “Is there any other way?”

  “You could, you know, try being pleasant for once.”

  I can’t help it—she’s so buttoned up, so Miss High-and-Mighty, despite the fact that her childhood was anything but. And, Jesus, but her snippy attitude turns me on as much now as it did when we first met two years ago.

  Maybe that’s the only reason that I shift my weight and let my hands rest on the top of the doorframe. I see her hollowed out breath the moment that I feel my T-shirt rise above the waistband of my shorts. “How am I not being polite? I didn’t slam the door in your face. We’re having a perfectly nice conversation. Am I supposed to start whipping puppies out of thin air next, or what?”

  She steps near, edging closer, until she’s right in front of me. And then, because Zoe Mackenzie is nothing if not an unbreakable hard-ass, her fingers find the hem of my shirt and tug down. “You’re trying to distract me, Andre. I know your game. But it’s not going to work. Let me in the house.”

  The feminine scent of citrus accosts my nose, and it’s so strong and so fresh, that I’m tempted to throw caution to the wind and wrap my arms around her in a hug. My fingers dig into the frame, and I fix my gaze on her face. “You gonna say the magic word?”

  “Abracadabra,” she says dryly, her fingers still tangled in the cotton of my shirt. “Open sesame.”

  I let go of the frame with one hand, then close my fingers over hers. “Those weren’t the magical words I was talking about.”

  “Please.”

  “As much as I like to hear you say that word, Zoe, that’s not it either.” She jolts when I use my hold on her to tug her close, closer than she expected, until her willowy curves press against my chest. The hitch of her breath rings like victory in my ears. “How ’bout we try this one more time, eh? Repeat after me.”

  “I’m not repeating anything,” she mutters, the words muffled thanks to the fact that she’s speaking into my clavicle.

  “Sure you will.” My fingers release hers. “Now, repeat after me—Andre, you are a god among men.”

  Her laugh is just as contagious as I remember it. “There’s no way I’m saying that.”

  “Don’t make me encourage you. I just worked out and I’m sweaty.”

  “Now there’s a threat,” she says, still laughing. Her dark eyes fix on my chest, and the close scrutiny makes me uncomfortable. I’m good with everything as long as it remains surface-level. No drudging up the past. No deep
talks about the future.

  But then Zoe leans in close, and her free hand lands on my chest, just over my heart. Maybe it’s accidental, but her nail scrapes across my pectoral muscle, and desire shoots straight to my groin. Her lips find my right ear, and she whispers, “You’re right, Andre. You are such a god among men. Which is why I need you to do exactly as I say if you don’t want to end up a mere mortal like the rest of us.”

  Then, she firmly plants her hand on my chest and pushes her way into my house.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ZOE

  My heart hammers in my chest as I step inside Andre’s home.

  I hate the way he can push me to my limits within just five minutes of being in his presence. I hate the way he can turn my dislike for him into something that feels a lot more like lust. Want.

  More.

  All right, I’ll be honest—I want more of Andre, more of the guy who stuck up for me in front of Walter Collins, more of the guy who makes me feel giddy with laughter. But he’s not willing to open up, so wanting anything more really doesn’t do much for me.

  My gaze latches onto a photograph on an entryway table, and the sound of my stilettos beating into the marble floor quiets as I roll to a stop. Bright blue eyes blink back at me from within the frame. The kid is maybe two years old, more toddler than anything else, with a bright smile and messy brown hair.

  “Your nephew?” I ask Andre over my shoulder. “He’s cute.”

  Andre moves silently toward the table, his hand outreached. His long, tapered fingers pause mere inches from the black frame, before curling into a fist. “Yeah.” His arm falls back to his side. “He is.”

  One quick look at his face tells me that he’s uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. I want to pry, to dig a little deeper into why his mouth has flat-lined, but I doubt I’ll get anywhere.

  Andre Beaumont is not a talker, something I learned quite well in his car the other night.

  With one last glance at the young boy, I twist away and motion to the house’s grand entryway. The ceiling is twenty-feet tall, and a wrought-iron spiral staircase winds up to the second floor. A decorative chandelier hangs about four feet above my head. “You sure decided to live in style when you came to Boston, didn’t you?”

  His house back in Detroit was a lot more modest. A historic Victorian that had seen better days, but it was cozy and sleepy, a perfect place for a man who spent the majority of his year on the road.

  “It works for now,” Andre tells me. He shows me his back as he heads into the room next door, which turns out to be the kitchen.

  To hell with it—I can’t help but pry, just a little. “Because this is your last season? And you have no plans to stick around?”

  The look he gives me would probably cower a lesser person, but I know Andre, both as a person as well as in the biblical sense. So, I stand my ground and wait him out. He’ll give in. He always does.

  With a sigh, he runs his fingers through his messy, black hair. “You’re annoying as all hell sometimes, you know that?”

  I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you very much. Out loud, I say, “Someone sounds cranky this morning.”

  His mouth pulls down. “I just worked out.”

  Against my better judgment, I let myself drink in his appearance. He wasn’t lying when he said he was sweaty. His cheeks are still flushed from activity, his T-shirt damp with perspiration. As always, his jaw is unshaven, and I have the absurd urge to walk up to him and run my hand over the stubble. To see if it’s as abrasive to the touch as it looks.

  “If you only came here to ogle me, Zoe, I would have at least showered for you.”

  The sound of Andre’s voice snaps me out of my (ahem) blatant perusal, and heat warms my cheeks. “That’s not—I mean, I’m not . . . ”

  “You are,” he returns silkily, “and you did.”

  I wave my hand at his body, as if that’s answer enough. Words, beautiful things that they are, have fled my brain.

  Andre’s mouth tugs up into a rare grin, and he kicks away from the counter to swagger over to me. And, yes, it’s a swagger. Hips slung low, chin dipped down. At the look of intent in his dark eyes, alarm bells spring into magnifying gongs, warning me to back the hell up and escape.

  I don’t have the chance.

  Before I can even recognize what’s going on, his arm wraps around my waist and pulls me in close. My cheek ends up plastered to his hard-as-a-rock pectoral muscles.

  “Oh, my God,” I whisper.

  His palms settle on my shoulder blades. “Say it with me now, honey—Andre, you are a god among men.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or to stab him with the closest sharp object. It’s a tough decision, made even tougher because the longer that we stand here together, the faster my heart pounds and the want spreads throughout my body like an infestation.

  An infestation that I doubt will ever be curable.

  Confession: I miss him, in more ways than one.

  One of his large hands moves south, just enough that I feel his palm skate the ridges of my spine. His other stays firmly planted on my upper back, keeping me tied to him, keeping me from fleeing.

  Which is the ironic thing, as Andre Beaumont is the one who’s in the habit of running.

  Forcing steel into my voice, I say, “Are you done with pulling the macho act?”

  His rich laughter rustles the top of my hair. “Not a chance in hell.”

  I inhale sharply, grappling with the decision to stay in his embrace or to push my way to freedom. Briefly, I let my eyes fall shut. Just for a moment. “You never used to hug me.”

  The words leave me on a shuddered breath, unintentional, and I know the minute they register in his brain because his chest flinches under my cheek. “It wasn’t allowed.”

  “It’s not allowed now either.”

  He doesn’t answer, not right away, and I wonder if I’ve made a disastrous mistake bringing up our muddled past. Then, so quietly I barely hear him, he says, “You’re smart for turning me away the other night, Zo. Trust me on that. We’re better off as friends.”

  The word lands like lead in my belly. “Is that what we are?” I lick my top lip nervously. “Friends?”

  His arms tighten around me. “I’ve been a shitty one.”

  “You did stick up for me in front of Walter . . . thank you for that.”

  “That’s the thing, Zo, you shouldn’t even be saying thank you in the first place. It should be expected that I have your back, always.”

  I’m struggling to find breath, because even though he’s telling me everything I’ve wanted to hear for months now . . . the words aren’t enough. Because you want more. So stupid, but yes, I want more. “What if . . . ” Trailing off, I swallow past the lump in my throat, my nails digging into his back. “What if I don’t—”

  “I want to be friends with you again, Zoe. You calling me at two in the morning just to talk, us going for runs, that sort of thing.”

  Something in his voice doesn’t ring quite right. My fingers find his shirt, and I push back just enough so that I can peer up at his rugged face. “Then why bother doing this? Why bother telling me that there’s no way we’ll have sex again, only for you to try and kiss me the other day? And now this.”

  “Would you believe me if I said that I have a hard time resisting you?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I think you have a hard time resisting temptation, whether it’s on or off the ice. No matter what you do, you’re always aiming for the sin bin.”

  At that, the pads of his fingers tighten on my back before he lets me go completely. His expression is unreadable, so it’s not much of a surprise when he rolls his big shoulders in a shrug, and says, “You’re right. I guess I get a thrill out of the chase.”

  Do not react.

  Do not react.

  Do not react.

  As much as I want to curl into myself at his words, I force a bright smile onto my face. Stand strong, girl. “Makes sens
e,” I tell him.

  His dark eyes meet mine, questioning. “Does it?” he asks, his voice low.

  No, it doesn’t. “Sure.”

  “Right.”

  I tear my gaze away from his, and seat myself at his kitchen island. We need to get back on track. Slipping my hot-pink bag from my shoulder, I place it on the table and rifle through the contents. Out comes my laptop, as well as my day planner. I find my hot-pink pen in one of the zippered side compartments.

  Andre’s brows pull low. “You came prepared.”

  Prepared for what, though? Prepared to feel desire twine through my limbs? To feel warm and secure and loved even when he’s telling me that I’m better off without him?

  Somehow, I don’t think that’s what he means.

  “We have a lot to talk about,” I say instead, opening my laptop and turning it on. “I have a plan.”

  He takes the seat opposite mine, his big shoulders bunching as he plants his forearms on the kitchen island’s counter. “You mentioned that earlier.”

  Well, isn’t he paying attention for once? With a few clicks on my touchpad, I pull up the document I worked on all last night. “How do you feel about kids?” I ask.

  When he doesn’t answer, I glance up and note his horrified expression. “Feel free to stop cupping your testicles, Beaumont. If I needed a sperm donor, you wouldn’t be my first choice.”

  His frown cracks, just as I intended it to, but the weirded-out expression on his face stays in place. “I’d be anyone’s first choice,” he says gruffly.

  I nod sagely. “Ah, yes, I forgot—you’re a god among men.” Rolling my eyes, I flip open my day planner to today’s date, and then uncap my pen. All right, we’re ready for business. “Like I said, I’m not after your little guys. I’m talking about in general. Are you okay with kids? I mean—your sister’s little boy is cute.”

  “Yeah, I’m . . . ” He coughs into a closed fist. “I’m good with them.”