Sin Bins And Slow Burns

I did not plan to meet a professional hockey player on the worst day of my life. To be fair, I didn’t plan for my car to die dramatically in the middle of traffic either—steam hissing like it had its own death wish, dashboard blinking warnings like it was auditioning for a disaster movie. But life, as usual, had other plans. Specifically, terrible ones. I stood on the sidewalk in my work heels—heels I wore only because I wanted to feel like a woman who had her life together—staring at my lifeless car and wondering which past sin I was being punished for. “Don’t cry,” I whispered to myself. “You’re a grown woman. Crying is for private bathrooms and overpriced wine.” The universe heard me and laughed. Because that’s when he showed up. Tall. Broad. Massive in a way that made the word *intimidating* feel inadequate. He wore a hoodie pulled halfway down his head and a pair of joggers that clung to thighs that definitely did not belong to a man who skipped leg day. When he moved, the fabric stretched just enough to make it unfair to the rest of us. And then there was the face. Sharp jaw. Scruff that looked intentional but effortless. Eyes the color of trouble—dark, assessing, annoyingly calm. The kind of man who looked like he knew exactly how good-looking he was and did nothing to stop it. He glanced at my car. Then at me. “Car trouble?” he asked. No. I just like standing on sidewalks questioning my life choices. “Yes,” I said tightly. “Unless my car is practicing stillness as a lifestyle.” A corner of his mouth twitched. Not a full smile. Just enough to suggest he enjoyed this. “I can take a look.” I eyed him. “Are you a mechanic?” “No.” “Then why—” “I’m good with my hands.” The way he said it was casual. The way my brain reacted was anything but. I cleared my throat. “I’m calling roadside assistance.” “Already did,” he said, holding up his phone. “Ten minutes.” I stared. “You called… for me?” “Didn’t look like you were having a great day.” That was strike one. Strike two was when he pushed up the sleeves of his hoodie while leaning over my engine, revealing forearms that were criminally sculpted. Veins. Actual veins. The kind romance novels warned you about. I swallowed. Hard. “Your radiator’s toast,” he said. “You shouldn’t drive it.” “I wasn’t planning to,” I snapped. “I was planning to teleport.” He laughed this time—low and warm, the sound wrapping around my spine like it had business there. “Relax,” he said. “Tow truck’s coming.” “Good,” I muttered. “Because I don’t accept help from strangers.” “You’re accepting it right now.” “I didn’t agree.” “You didn’t stop me.” I hated him. Which was unfortunate, because when he straightened to his full height, my pulse did something traitorous. “I’m—” He paused, then shook his head. “Never mind.” “What?” “Names complicate things.” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you a criminal?” “Only on the ice.” That should have been my warning. I laughed despite myself. “You play hockey.” He tilted his head. “That obvious?” “Your posture screams ‘I hit things professionally.’” He smirked. Fully this time. Devastating. “Fair.” The tow truck arrived, and relief washed over me—until he stepped back and suddenly the space between us felt… noticeable. “I’ll walk you somewhere,” he said. “No.” “Yes.” “I don’t even know you.” “You know I’m not a murderer.” “You don’t know that.” “I smiled.” “Serial killers smile.” He leaned in slightly. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough that I could smell clean soap and something darker underneath. Something male. “Coffee,” he said. “Public place. You can leave whenever.” My better judgment screamed. My curiosity won. “Fine,” I said. “But this isn’t a date.” “Didn’t say it was.” The café was small and warm, the kind that smelled like sugar and secrets. He took off his hoodie and that’s when I realized my mistake. He was wearing a fitted hockey training shirt. It hugged him like it loved him. Like it had memorized every hard line of muscle underneath. His chest was broad, his waist unfairly narrow, and the subtle outline of abs showed through the fabric like a promise. I looked away. Immediately. “Your coffee,” he said. “Thanks.” Silence stretched. “So,” I said. “What do you do?” He sipped casually. “I play hockey.” “For…?” A beat. “The Wolves.” I froze. The Wolves. As in *the* Wolves. The team plastered on billboards. The men half the city worshipped. The players with contracts worth more than my entire bloodline. I looked at him slowly. “Oh,” I said. “Yeah.” “You’re serious.” “Unfortunately.” I laughed once. Sharp. “Of course you are.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means my life has a twisted sense of humor.” He studied me now. Really looked. “And you are?” I hesitated. “The girl who doesn’t date athletes.” His eyebrow lifted. “Why not?” “Because they’re arrogant. And busy. And they break hearts like it’s a sport.” He leaned back, gaze steady. “Not all of us.” I scoffed. “Please.” Before he could reply, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, jaw tightening. “Coach,” he muttered. Something shifted in the air. He stood. “I’ve got to go.” “Oh, don’t let me keep you,” I said, annoyed by the disappointment curling in my chest. He paused. Then slid a napkin across the table. A number. “In case you change your mind.” I stared at it. At him. “I won’t.” He smiled like he knew something I didn’t. “See you around,” he said. As he walked away, I realized two terrifying things: One—I never caught his name. Two—I had a feeling this wasn’t the last time I’d see him. And judging by the slow burn already igniting in my chest… That was going to be a problem.