ANDRE

She looks exactly the same.

As I listen to Coach Hall mouth off about shitty stick-play at the front of the locker room, that’s the only thought running on repeat in my head. She looks exactly the same. I’m not thinking about riding the Chicago Blackhawks hard enough that they’ll cry themselves to sleep tonight. I’m not thinking about the fact that I’ve already dropped gloves twice in the last two periods—and subsequently served my penance in the sin bin.

For once, hockey isn’t my focus.

She is.

Zoe Mackenzie.

The one woman who I was never supposed to see again.

Jesus H. Christ, she looked good today. Criminally good, even. Slim-fitting dress, her usual. Heels that were painted the same color red as her lips. In the span of one second, I’d experienced a range of emotions that rocked me back like a hard-hitting body check. All at once, I’d wanted to tug her into my arms and inhale what I hoped was still her favorite citrusy perfume just as badly as I’d wanted to turn on my heel and get the fuck out of there.

I hadn’t expected to see her in Walter Collins’s office. Hell, I hadn’t even known that she’d moved to Boston. Zoe was a Detroit girl through and through, and having her here in the same city was like liquid heat in my veins.

“Beaumont.”

I lift my gaze from my skates to Hall, whose face is blustery with agitation. “Yeah, Coach?”

His white mustache twitches as he clamps his teeth down on a toothpick. “I need you to get out there, Sin. Do what you do best. We’re fucking behind by three, and unless someone’s up to scoring a goddamn hat trick tonight, then I’m gonna need you to take control.”

No one asks what he’s talking about. Aside from Duke Harrison, our main man between the pipes, I’m the biggest guy on the ice. If you believe the rumors, I’m also the meanest son of a bitch to play, too.

The sin bin might as well be my second home. I’ll be honest, it’s a tough balance to find. Play hard enough that grown men flee in the opposite direction when they see you coming, but don’t play so hard that you’re ejected from the game. The league doesn’t support enforcers anymore—we’re a dying breed, thanks to changing safety regulations over the years—but when push comes to shove, we’re still expected to step forward and do our job.

It’s a balance I’ve perfected over the years, and Coach Sam Hall knows that well.

King Sin Bin.

Earned the damned nickname when I was twenty-one years old, still scrappy, and grabbing players left and right as we hustled for the puck at the boards. Back then, my aggressive style of play was a bonus. Nowadays, it’s more of a liability . . . except for times like now, when we’re lagging behind, playing slow, and reinforcements are needed.

In other words, I’m needed.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m doing exactly what Coach ordered. Driving my elbow into my opponent’s side as I grab him by the back of his jersey. My helmet glances off the Plexiglas as I dig in.

“Get the fuck back, Sin,” Marlow grunts.

We used to play together in Detroit, way back when. My knee slips between his legs as we battle for the puck at the boards. Our shoulders jostle, pads colliding. “Hope your wife won’t mind your crying tonight,” I grunt back at him. “Maybe grab some tissues on the way home.”

“Fuck you, Beaumont.”

“You’re not my type, Marlow. Told you before.”

Over the deafening crowd, I hear him laugh. “You still pining after Moaning Zoe, man? Not that I blame you, her ass is . . . ”

I drive my elbow into his pads.

Not enough to cause injury—I play hard, ruthless, but not dirty—but the force of my weight sends him sprawling to the ice. Way back when, Ken Marlow used to fist-bump me for pulling stunts just like this one.

From the way he eyes me through the grates of his helmet, he’s had a change of heart. He clambers to his skates, lunging toward me, gloved fists raised, just as one of the linesmen skates over and blows the whistle, indicating to the referee that I messed up and deserve to serve time for elbowing. Again.

I skate toward the penalty box without a backward glance. The crowd is a cacophony of boos and applause, as the fans take their sides. It’s a sound I’ve been living for since I was just a kid growing up in the suburbs of Ottawa, Canada. Nowadays, though, those boos and cheers equal a paycheck, making me the top paid enforcer in the league.

King Sin Bin—that’s me. Meanest bastard on the ice. Man with a heart of ice.

I fucking wish that was true.

As the second line hits the ice, I think of Zoe from earlier today—her dark eyes flashing with sardonic humor when I connected the dots that she’s my new publicist. My jaw clenches. While the position might be hers, I refuse to ever cross those blurred lines with her again.

I like my life. It’s simple. Easy.

Zoe makes me think, makes me feel.

And that just won’t do.

I grind my teeth. Once upon a time, I considered Zoe my closest friend. Before I allowed lust to get in the way, before I was so desperate for her that I ignored all the signs that Zoe wanted more than I could give her, emotionally. Better to keep her at arm’s length now than to potentially get back in too deep.

I stare at the rink through the Plexiglas and swallow past the growing lump in my throat. This is the right move, for both of us . . . And if I happen to have saved some of the final texts she ever sent me, that’ll just stay with me.

King Sin Bin.

Man with a heart of ice.

My fingers dig into my thighs.

Yeah, we’re all better off this way.

If only I could forget the vision of her shocked face the moment she saw me today. Damn it, but it felt good to be in the same room as her.