Sin Bin (D.C. Stars #5)

Chapter 1

ONE

brODY

This club is too fucking loud, or I’m too fucking old.

Both are probably true.

My daughter would be the first to remind me I’m too geriatric to be out past ten p.m., and she’s right.

The pounding headache and my wavering patience that’s growing thinner by the second is far from enjoyable, but the blonde who’s been taunting me all night from across the club almost makes it tolerable.

I take another sip of my beer to stop myself from doing something stupid like going up to her and asking her name.

As if I don’t already know it.

Hannah Everett.

The younger sister of my second line left winger, Grant Everett, and someone I shouldn’t be within ten feet of.

That hasn’t stopped me from looking at her.

I drag my eyes away from her bare shoulders. I force myself to focus on something other than the flush on her skin when she lifts her arms above her head and sways to the beat of the music pulsing through the speakers.

How long has it been since I hooked up with a woman?

Two years? Maybe three? The months blur together when the NHL season gets underway.

Training camp late in September bleeds into the regular season then the post season, and now that I’m thinking about it, it might be closer to four years since my last rendezvous with someone other than my hand.

Christ.

I’m pathetic.

“You want another round?”

I glance at the bartender who’s pointing at my beer bottle.

I strain to hear him over someone screaming into a microphone about being world champions and the answering round of applause and cheers.

If it’s one of my players, they’re going to be in so much trouble.

I’ll bang on their door at six in the morning as punishment for acting like a showboating dickbag.

I don’t give a damn about their hangover.

They might have won the Stanley Cup earlier tonight and brought the trophy back to DC for the second year in a row, but I’m not afraid to call them out if they do something stupid that embarrasses the franchise.

My headache is going to last all day tomorrow. Spending the start of my offseason in the DC Stars’ governors’ office while they lecture me about getting my players under control sounds like my idea of hell.

Coaching responsibilities and all of that.

“Nah. I’m good.” I pull out my wallet and find my credit card. “I’m going to close my tab.”

“It’s on the house tonight.”

“No the fuck it isn’t.”

“Yeah, it is.” The bartender laughs. “You’re the youngest coach in NHL history to win two Cups. Your money is no good here.”

“I don’t like when people argue with me.” I’ve never been good with accepting compliments, so I shrug off the praise and rifle through my wallet. Dropping five twenties on the counter, I shove the bills his way. “Take it.”

“Between the tips your players have left and the publicity they’ve generated from tagging us on social media, I’m going to be able to pay my rent for the rest of the year with tonight’s earnings.

It means a lot.” He scoops up the money and shoves it in the overflowing tip jar.

I spot plenty of hundred-dollar bills. Tons of twenties and fifties, and pride races through me.

My guys might be menaces half the damn time, but they have good heads on their shoulders. “You want a water to go?”

“That would be—”

“Leaving already? You can’t be that bored.”

A voice from behind me carries over the music and interrupts us. I glance over my shoulder and find Hannah smiling my way.

Suddenly I’m hot all over.

And in need of another drink.

“Yeah,” I say. “This place isn’t my scene.”

“What is your scene?” she asks.

“I don’t know.” I gesture to Maverick Miller, the team’s captain and star player, standing on top of a bar without his shirt on. My gaze cuts over to Ethan Richardson, our center, lifting the Cup over his head. “Somewhere I can hear myself think.”

“I know a place that’s quieter.”

“Doubt that’s possible. Everyone in this city recognizes me.”

“That’s a bold assumption. Not everyone loves hockey.

” She leans an elbow on the bar and swirls her drink around.

Her lips clamp down on her straw, taking a long sip of what looks and smells like whiskey and ginger ale while her eyes never leave mine.

“Do you always walk around thinking you’re important? ”

Her sarcasm makes my cheeks heat. I’m too warm. She’s too close. “Important is the last thing I am,” I grumble. “I’m the most boring person on the planet.”

Her eyes flick to the collection of friendship bracelets on my wrist. Olivia, my twelve-year-old, made them for me to wear to tonight’s game, a good luck memento she thought I needed.

Hannah’s attention moves to the tattoos that span from my hand to my biceps.

Her gaze lingers on the ones hiding under my shirt, barely visible at the dip of my collar, before letting out a hum.

“My apartment is free.”

“You don’t know anything about me. I could be a serial killer,” I say.

“I could probably fix you if you were.” She lifts an eyebrow, voice dropping low. “Are you a serial killer, Brody?”

Hearing my name makes me pause. It’s rare anyone in my life uses it, often going with Coach or Dad or Saunders, but I like how it sounds coming from her. I also like the grin she’s trying to fight off. Her whole face lights up, and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone so happy.

“If the rumors about me are true, I could be,” I say. “I come with a warning label.”

“Even better.” Her smile widens. She stands up straight, and I shouldn’t be noticing how short her skirt is. The way it barely reaches the tops of her thighs and how it hugs her hips. “I have some knives you can use.”

A sound whooshes out of me. It might be a laugh. I’m pretty sure it is, but I cover it up with a cough.

Having her think she’s funny is dangerous. It’s going to give her the wrong idea. A sense of power, and that’s not going to end well for anyone.

Especially me.

“Are you old enough to drink?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

She is.

I’m well aware of everything about her, and bringing up her age is the easiest way to draw a line between us.

If only she would take the fucking bait.

“I’m old enough to do a lot of things.” Hannah tips her head to the side.

Her ponytail is held together by a white ribbon, and the sight of it jumbles my brain.

“Are you young enough to be out this late? I thought there were laws against senior citizens driving after a certain time of night. We have to be close to your curfew, old man.”

“Brat,” I mumble. It’s a bad sign when all she does is laugh. “That’s not how you should talk to your elders.”

“You have to be, what? Close to fifty?”

“I wish I was close to fifty. Then I’d be close to death, and it would get me out of having to talk to anyone ever again.”

“What a lovely way to look at life.”

My lips quirk. I scrub a hand over my jaw and look around, hoping Grant hasn’t noticed us talking. Gossip is the last thing I need, but no one is paying attention to us.

All the guys are celebrating. They’re enjoying their victory in their own ways, and hanging out with Hannah can’t be the worst thing in the world.

Something tells me she would be a lot of fucking fun.

“I’m thirty-seven,” I say. “Almost thirty-eight. Tomorrow is my birthday.”

“Really?” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. It’s entirely too distracting. “What are we doing to celebrate?”

I’m severely out of practice. Absolutely clueless when it comes to dating and women and relationships, but it almost feels like she’s flirting with me.

My throat bobs around a swallow. A hundred wicked thoughts run through my head, and each of them would get me in a shitload of trouble.

Fucking you against a wall would be a great way to start another year.

For a minute, I can’t bring myself to care about the repercussions the daydream would bring, because I’m leaning into her space. I’m listening to her sharp inhale and testing the waters to see how she plans to play this.

“I don’t know,” I answer. “What did you have in mind?”

“I did say my apartment was free.” Hannah wets her lips. I follow the path of her tongue, imagining how it would feel like licking down my stomach and up my cock. I have to squeeze my eyes shut. “Do you want to take a walk?”

“You’re too young for us to—”

“To, what? Be friends? Get some fresh air? I’m twenty-four, Brody. I can drink. I can vote. I can hang out with other adults. You can save the lecture.”

My eyes open and meet hers. They’re a pretty shade of blue. Big and wide and watching me, and the rational part of my brain is screaming at me to walk away. To shut this down before it goes too far, and I sort through the list of all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

There are thirteen years between us. She’s related to one of my players which automatically makes her off-limits. Hanging around is a recipe for disaster. An invitation to get my ass kicked, but I can’t force myself to leave.

I’ve been looking at her for a while now, and one wide smile and the tilt of her head tells me I don’t stand a chance.

I’m weak as shit.

“A walk,” I repeat, firm in the declaration. Maybe the louder I am, the more I’ll believe it. “That’s it.”

“Calm down, Daddy,” she teases with a smirk and the flip of her ponytail. My fingers curl around the edge of the bar to stop myself from reaching over and wrapping the long strands around my wrist. From giving a sharp tug and pulling her into my lap. “I know how to behave myself.”

It’s not her I’m worried about.

It’s me.

She turns and saunters for the door, not bothering to check if I’m following. I shuffle behind her, aware I might be making the biggest mistake of my life.

I can’t bring myself to care.