Hat Trick in the Sin Bin

1. Harrison

CHAPTER ONE

HARRISON

I push my way into The Sin Bin bar and glance around. Above the bar, a Lone Star blazes, painting everything in a glow that’s half gold, half electric blue. Friday night after a win, it’s a fucking madhouse. The place shakes with jukebox bass and voices shouting over one another.

I walk up to the last booth in the back. “Look at this motherfucker!” Bouch roars and walks over to sling his forearm around my neck, squeezing so tight the edge of my vision starts to go black. “Three goals, all his teeth still in his mouth. Success!”

“Let the man breathe before we have to do CPR on his ass,” Liam Fichtner, our left defenseman, grumbles, lifting his beer to his mouth.

“You have to do the rescue breaths ‘cause I’m not kissing his ugly ass. I’ll do the chest compressions!” Chance Scott yells from the far side, his chair somehow already backward, one leg up on the next table.

Phoenix Michaud is the only one in the booth not immediately drunk or shouting. He’s methodically picking jalapenos off a plate of loaded nachos and pretending to listen, but I can see the edge of a smile ghost his mouth.

“Hopefully, you do compressions better than you defend shit,” Phoenix says, voice so low I’m not sure anyone else hears it. “Was watching your D get undressed in front of the crease all goddamn night.”

Chance grabs his chest like he’s been shot, nearly toppling his own beer. “Jesus, that’s cold.”

I’m wondering how soon I can cut the fuck out of here when something catches my eye.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I glance around.

Holy fucking hell. The second my eyes land on her, my cock goes rock hard.

She’s maybe five-two, in dark jeans and a black tee that’s one breath from being illegal, her dark chocolate hair up in a sleek, no-nonsense ponytail.

Fuck me with a stick. She’s goddamn stunning. The beautiful brunette cuts through the crowd with the kind of precision that parts people without asking. She doesn’t look where she’s going; she already knows.

The air shifts. The hair on my arms is standing up, and my chest is tight for reasons that have nothing to do with the dirty hit I took in the third period.

I try to play it cool, but my eyes keep tracking her as she weaves from table to table, unfazed by the crowd or the way every head turns as she passes.

She’s headed for us now, tray stacked high, moving fast and not slowing down for anyone. I feel my stomach go tight and low, adrenaline spiking all over again.

Everything else in the fucking room disappears as I stare at her.

She stops in front of our booth, one hip canted, tray up, and fixes me with a look so flat and unhurried I almost miss it. There’s not even a flicker of surprise in her eyes, no “Oh wow, it’s you!” She just registers us, in order, and says, “You guys need anything?”

I open my mouth, something cocky wanting to come out, but my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. Every thought in my goddamn mind disappears.

Rowdy Bouchard saves me, which is humiliating on multiple levels. “Yeah, we’ll take another pitcher, couple whiskey sours for my friends here,” he says, all in one breath.

She looks at Bouch like she’s met a hundred of him and is completely unimpressed. “You want a specific whiskey, or just surprise you?”

He grins wide. “Surprise me.”

She nods and turns to leave, but I have to say something to make her stay.

I open my mouth, and some stupid ass shit escapes. “I scored a hat trick tonight. That means I get a hat trick kiss, right?”

Did I really just say that? I’m not sure who’s more shocked, the guys or me.

The waitress rolls her eyes. “I saw the game. The hat trick was nice, but let’s be honest, you only got the last one because of dumb luck.”

Rowdy’s howl of joy almost knocks the glasses off the table. He slaps his palm down so hard the pitcher jumps, then points a beefy finger right at me. “Damn. She’s a tough nut.”

The stunning brunette flashes him an actual smile, which transforms her face for a split second, then returns her focus to me. “And don’t you forget it.”

She winks at me and walks away, not even a stutter in her stride, tray tucked under her elbow and ponytail swinging like a metronome set to kill.

For a second, I can’t breathe. Goddamn. The excitement from scoring my first career hat trick pales in comparison to meeting my soulmate.

Ryan Walker, our starting goalie and the only person in this entire booth who can read a room better than he can read a puck, leans forward and raises his own beer in a gentle, almost mournful salute.

“To the fallen,” he says, clinking the lip of his bottle to mine. “You’re toast, my friend.”

“Don’t I know it.” I watch as she talks to the bartender.

After what feels like a goddamn eternity, she grabs her tray and turns back toward us.

She’s got a pitcher in her left hand and a constellation of shots and glasses balanced on the large round tray balanced in her right hand.

She stops at our booth and hands out the glasses without even glancing my way.

She slides the beer bottle across to me. “For your hat trick,” she says, and the words are flat but not unkind, the way you might toss a dog a treat for finally rolling over. “It’s on the house.”

“Thank you.” I pick up the bottle, fingers wrapping around the neck, and for a second, I just hold it there.

My thumb works the edge of the label, back and forth.

The whole booth is loud again, and I can feel the rumble of the team’s laughter in my ribs, but it’s all background noise now.

My world’s contracted to about two feet across, which is the distance between her and me.

I take a long pull, let the beer hit my empty stomach, and set the bottle down harder than I mean to.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” she mutters as she turns to walk away.

“I need to know your name.” I guess my mouth isn’t finished running off without consulting my goddamn brain. Fuck. The silence around the table tells me that all my teammates are watching me make a fool of myself.

She glances over at me but keeps walking. Then she’s gone, disappearing through the crowd.

I watch her cross the floor. Not staring, exactly, but definitely not doing anything else.

There’s something about the way she moves that’s not for show.

She doesn’t sway, doesn’t bother with any of the performative bullshit the other servers try on the bigger tippers.

She just walks, cuts through the crowd, delivers, collects, repeats.

And I keep my eyes on her, knowing my life will never be the same again.