Sin Bin (Carolina Comets #4)

“You’re telling me you’ve lived here nearly three years and you have never been here before?”

“Nope. Not once.”

He presses his hand to his chest. “That is a travesty.”

“Does it count that I’ve at least had the donuts before? Sometimes there’s a box floating around the break room.”

“It makes it better, but trust me, they’re even better fresh.” He pats his flat stomach. “My mouth is watering just thinking about them.”

“Calm down. I’m sure there’s not that big of a difference.”

He pins me with a stare that tells me I’m wrong.

It’s a random Wednesday in February, so I’m really not expecting the line standing before me. It’s at least six customers deep when we step up to the back.

“Is it always like this?”

Smith nods. “Pretty much.”

“Wow. I didn’t realize it was this popular.”

“Even when you want to, Scout’s hard to resist.”

“Scout?”

He points to the woman behind the register of the adorable baby-blue food truck. “That’s Scout. She’s the owner, baker, and best donut maker.” He grins at his rhyme. “But seriously, she’s great.”

“You’re on a first-name basis with her?”

He shrugs. “I eat a lot of donuts.”

Scout notices Smith pointing her way and waves. Just about everyone in line ahead of us turns to see who she’s waving at, and many of them begin talking behind their hands when they realize it’s a Comets player. Smith pulls his hat down low, but it’s pointless. Everyone already knows it’s him.

I take note of the fact that so many people here know who he is and put a little extra space between us just in case. If Smith notices, he doesn’t say anything.

One by one, people in line start coming up to Smith and asking for an autograph. He’s more than happy to do it, and I really appreciate that about him. By the time we make it to the front to order, Scout’s giving Smith a sheepish grin.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to draw attention.”

Smith shrugs. “They would have noticed me eventually. Always happens.”

“It really does. You hockey players are good for business.” She turns to me, beaming. “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Scout.”

“Emilia. Your donuts are delicious, but I’ve unfortunately never had the chance to make it here before.”

“Well, welcome to Scout’s Sweets.” She waves her hand around. “It’s not much, but it’s mine.”

“Not much? This place is so cute! I love the little sandbox and the mobile library.”

Her eyes light up. “I’m a huge book lover.”

“Boys in books are just better,” I say.

“Yes! That’s exactly what I always say!”

“I take great offense to that,” Smith interjects.

Scout and I both roll our eyes at him because he just doesn’t get it.

“Anyway,” Scout says, “what can I get for you today?” She points to Smith. “I’m assuming your usual Granny Apple donuts and coffee?”

I try not to laugh at the irony of his donut order.

“Please, and then whatever Emilia here wants,” he tells her, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

I tap my fingers against my chin, perusing the menu. “I’ve had your glazed donuts several times before, but I’m feeling a bit adventurous today. Any suggestions?”

“Do you prefer chocolate or vanilla?”

“Chocolate. Always.”

“While I love all the donuts I make, I have a soft spot for my Pretty Please donut. It’s a chocolate base with cherry frosting.”

“Perfect. I’ll take two of those and an iced coffee with—”

“Cream and three sugars,” Smith finishes for me, handing his card over to Scout.

Her eyes bounce between the two of us, and I’m not loving how perceptive they are, or the knowing grin she gives us as she charges the card.

“Go have a seat,” she tells us. “I’ll bring your order out for you.”

Smith’s hand goes to my lower back, and I wonder if he even notices—I sure do—as he steers us toward one of the few unoccupied picnic tables toward the back of the lot.

I try not to laugh at how ridiculous Smith looks sliding into it. He’s so big he makes it look like he’s sitting on kids’ furniture instead of at a regular-sized table.

“Don’t laugh at me just because I ate my vegetables and you didn’t. Not my fault you stopped growing.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I am above average height for women, thank you very much. I ate my vegetables too. You’re just freakishly gigantic.”

“In many areas.”

“Smith!” I admonish, looking around to make sure nobody heard him, but it’s pointless. We’re practically all alone back here. I have a feeling he chose this spot for that exact reason. “This is supposed to be a work breakfast, you know.”

“Does the working start now, or did it start earlier when I was eating your—”

I slap my hand over his mouth.

“Not another word,” I say, sharpening my gaze.

I don’t have to see his mouth to know he’s grinning at me. I can see it in his eyes.

I peel my hand away just as Scout makes her way over to us, two coffees and a box of donuts in her hand.

“Here you go,” she says, setting our order down on the table. She turns to Smith and holds what looks like a piece of construction paper out to him. “And this is for you from Macie.”

A small smile plays on Smith’s lips as he takes the paper. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank her yet. Just wait until you see the picture she drew of you.” Scout laughs. “Enjoy the donuts.” She practically skips back to the food truck, and I nod toward the paper.

“What’s that she gave you?”

Smith grins, looking down at what appears to be a homemade card. “Last year, Scout’s eight-year-old niece, Macie, needed a sponsor for her soccer team so they could afford to get their uniforms made, so I covered it for them. This season, I just outright sponsored the whole year.” He shrugs. “It was no big deal.”

He says it so casually, like to him it really wasn’t a big deal, and I’m sure that is the case. But for the little girl and her soccer team, I know it meant the world having a famous athlete cover things for them so they don’t have to worry about expenses and can just play.

“Anyway, since then, she’s been dropping thank-you cards with Scout every few weeks, so I began sending her notes back and drawing pictures in them. It’s silly stuff mostly, her as a superhero, that kind of thing. At first, it was fun, then she started taking some…creative liberties.” He frowns. “Like at Christmas. That one was sweet…until you opened it.”

“What’d it say?”

“It wasn’t so much what it said but how she drew me. There were lines all over my face, and when I asked what they were, she looked me straight in the eyes and said wrinkles.”

I laugh, not just at the card and what the bold little girl wrote, but also at the way Smith’s brows slam together. I’m almost certain the wrinkles forming from his scowling are exactly what she drew.

“Let’s hope this one is better,” he mumbles, flipping open the bright orange paper. He gasps. “That little shit!”

“What is it?” I strain my neck, trying to see what’s on the card.

“Scout!” he yells, and she pops her head up. He waves the card. “Tell that little turd niece of yours that payback is a bitch!”

Scout just laughs, shaking her head.

“What is it?” I ask again, and Smith shoves the card at me, glaring at it like it’s offensive.

He’s right. The front is innocent enough. It just says THANK YOU in sprawling, crooked letters. But when I flip it open, I immediately know what it is that has him so upset.

Laughter bubbles out of me, which just causes Smith’s scowl to deepen even more.

“It’s not funny,” he grumbles.

“Oh, but it is.”

“Is not.” He snatches the card back, tucking it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “She’s eight. She’s not supposed to be that mean.” He shakes his head, and it takes everything I have not to point out the way the sun catches the gray in his hair that’s sticking out of his cap. “A fucking cane. Little shit drew me with a cane like I’m some old man or something.”

I do a poor job of trying to conceal another laugh, earning me yet another scowl.

“Come on, it’s cute!”

“It’s mean. Like I don’t already get enough shit from the guys on the team.”

“Yeah, but they do it because they love you. They don’t really care that you’re old.”

“And do you?” he asks. “Care that I’m older than you?”

Our age gap isn’t something we’ve really discussed. We’re both aware there’s a ten-year difference between us, but we don’t talk about it. Just like we don’t talk about what any of this truly means.

I try not to think about that though.

“No. Not at all. Do you care that I’m younger than you?”

“No. I mean, that first night…” He shakes his head from side to side. “Yeah, maybe then, but only because I knew I shouldn’t have been taking anyone home, let alone someone ten years younger than me. But…nah. I haven’t really given it much thought since.”

I haven’t thought about it much either. I’m sure someone out there would have an issue with it. But we’re both adults, and we’re both thoroughly enjoying whatever this is that we’re doing. That should be all that matters.

“Good. Then it’s settled: you don’t care that I’m a young spring chicken, and I don’t care that you groan every time you stand.”

He gives me yet another glare as he peels open our box of donuts. He holds one of mine out to me. “Eat.”

I don’t think twice about leaning forward and taking a bite. The warmth is the first thing I notice, then the delicious cherry frosting mixed with the chocolate. I can’t help the moan that leaves my lips.

Smith doesn’t miss it, his eyes darkening for a whole different reason now.

“See?” he says. “I told you fresh was better.”

“You were right,” I say, taking the donut from his fingers and taking another bite. The rich flavor explodes over my tongue. “So good.”

“Scout’s got talent, that’s for sure. But that niece of hers…” He shakes his head, digging into his own breakfast.

He gets one donut down before someone approaches the table and asks for an autograph. He grins, agreeing easily, never once making it seem like they’re interrupting his breakfast. I’m so used to being around the game all the time that I forget the guys on the Comets are idols to some people.

I mean, I’m sure their opinions of them would change if they had to smell just how quickly those grown men can stink up a locker room and witness some of the less-than-stellar habits some of them have, but still. They’re famous hockey players, and people all over the world are watching them.

At one point he even takes the hat off his own head and signs it for a young kid, then jogs back out to his truck for a new one. I love seeing him in this environment, interacting outside of the rink when he’s not obligated to do it. He’s so patient and kind with every person who approaches, especially the children, and it’s making my heart do funny things to see him like this.

The more time we spend together, the more I’m really starting to like so many things about him. He might think all he has going for him is his hockey skills, but he’s so much more than that.

Somehow, I manage to remember to snap a few photos of Smith signing things for the team’s Instagram account, and I also take some pictures on the fans’ phones.

“You’re really good at this,” I comment when the crowd at the truck thins out. “Doing the whole famous hockey player thing. The kids really look up to you, especially the young ones who play. Have you thought about doing something with them after you’re done in the NHL?”

He tips his head. “Like what?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, like coaching or something? I’ve seen you on the ice with the guys. Yeah, Lowell might be the captain, but the guys listen to you just as much as they do him.”

“Only because I’m the oldest.”

I shake my head. “No, that’s not the only reason. You just have this…presence about you. Like you demand attention, but not in a scary way. It’s natural—sort of like the pull my uncle has. I think it could make you a really good coach.”

“Coaching?” he mutters, pondering it. “I haven’t really considered that.”

“Have you given any thought to what you want to do when you’re out?”

His lips tug down into a frown, his eyes sliding out to the little lake that butts up to the parking lot. “I’ve tried not to think about it too much, you know? Just trying to live in the moment, enjoy it while it lasts.”

Like a lot of aging athletes, there’s been speculation for a few seasons now about whether or not Smith was going to retire, especially after the Comets won the Cup. He got the big trophy, so he’d be done for sure then, right? But no, he stuck around. With his contract expiring at the end of this year, the talk has really picked up again.

I can understand why he doesn’t want to look that far ahead though. I’m sure it’s scary. Hockey is all he’s ever known in his adult life. Moving beyond that is going to be hard.

“Is that…Miller?”

I look to where Smith’s staring off across the parking lot and squint, trying to get a better look at the guy who has a hat pulled down low and a pair of aviators covering his eyes. If I didn’t see him so often, I probably wouldn’t look twice, which is likely why nobody is staring him down like they did Smith.

“Shit,” Smith mutters. “That is him.”

“Should we try to sneak away?” I ask.

“Nah. Kid is oblivious—probably won’t even notice us. Besides, we can always just say we’re working on the player profile if he spots us.”

“We are working on it. That’s why we’re here and why Tori gave me the morning away from the office.”

Smith lifts a brow. “Are you going to include the ‘work’ we did this morning in the player profile?”

I try not to blush thinking of how he tugged me into his apartment and did some very unprofessional things to me before he drove us here to one of his favorite spots in the city.

“I think I’ll leave that out,” I mutter, and he laughs.

Miller, not looking our way at all, struts up to the register, a smile plastered on his face. Even from here, I can spot Scout’s blush, and I can’t say I blame her. Miller’s charming and—not that I’d say this out loud to Smith—hot. It’s no wonder Scout is looking at him like she is.

He places his order with a grin, probably being typical Miller and flirting his ass off with her. Scout turns away for a moment and gets his order ready. She’s grinning at him again as she hands him a box of donuts and two coffees. I don’t miss the way she stares longingly after him as he makes his way across the parking lot.

He doesn’t head for his car, though. He walks right by it and crosses the street.

At the intersection, a man is sitting there with a sign that reads ANYTHING HELPS. Miller sits down on the ground next to him, hands him a coffee, and opens the box of donuts. The man takes one, and Miller takes another. They sit there talking animatedly for several minutes like they’re old friends swapping stories or something.

Smith and I watch the whole thing, not saying a word.

After Miller gets up, waves goodbye to the man, and leaves, Smith turns to me and says, “That’s who your player profile should have been about. Not me.”

“The fans voted.”

“Bullshit. Miller was the one who wrote my name in.”

I wince. “Yeah, about that…I kind of know.”

“Wait, you do?”

“Yeah, Miller came to my office one day and confessed everything, said he felt bad and didn’t think you wanted to be part of it because you were stomping around extra grumpy, and he didn’t want it messing with your game.”

Smith snorts. “Oh, I was pissed all right. Probably more for reasons he didn’t understand.” He waves a hand between us. “But still pissed.”

That same silence that always falls between us at any reminder of how temporary this is comes again.

It’s interrupted when Scout stops at the end of the table.

“I’m heading out for an appointment, and my sister is going to take over for a few.” She hitches her thumb toward the truck. “Just wanted to make sure you guys don’t need anything else before I go.”

Smith defers to me for the answer.

“Oh, no,” I say, waving my hand. “I think we’re good. Excellent recommendation to get the Pretty Please. That cherry icing was amazing.”

“Thank you. I think it’s one of my best ones.” She beams proudly. “Anyway, I need to run. It was great to meet you, Emilia. I always love it when the guys start bringing their girlfriends here. It means things are getting serious.”

“We’re not dating,” I say quickly, probably a little too quickly if the way Smith’s head snaps up is any indication. “This is just for work.”

Her mouth opens as she looks back and forth between Smith and me, and I can feel him staring a hole into the side of my head. I refuse to meet his stare, knowing full well if I look at him, I’ll be giving entirely too much away.

“Oh. I just thought…” She rolls her lips together, shaking her head. “Never mind what I thought. My bad.”

“No worries. Speaking of…do you mind if we film a few videos here? The Comets media department is highlighting Smith, and I’d love to include one of his favorite spots in some of the posts. We’ll tag you in everything too.”

“Oh, of course!” She claps her hands together, then grins brightly at Smith. “That’s amazing for you!” The smile he gives her back doesn’t reach his eyes, but if Scout notices, she doesn’t comment. “Feel free to shoot wherever. You have my full permission for everything. And if you need anything—refill, more donuts, whatever—just let Stevie know and she’ll get it. On the house, of course.”

“Thanks,” I tell her. “That’s really nice of you.”

“Oh, please. It’s nothing. I’m sure Lowell has a lot to do with it since we went to high school together, but the Comets are always here supporting me and bringing in so many customers, so it’s the least I can do.” She gives me another bubbly grin, then checks her watch. “Okay, got to run. Great meeting you again, Emilia.” She looks to Smith. “I’ll let Macie know you loved her card.”

His scowl deepens, and she laughs, giving us a wave before hustling to her car.

“I like her,” I say, watching her go. “She seems fun.”

“She is. She was super shy when I first started coming here, and it took a while for her to warm up to me. We’re good now though.”

I kind of picked up on that when Miller was here. There wasn’t a lot of eye contact, and I swear her hand was shaking as she gave him his coffee.

“Do the other guys come here often?”

He nods. “Yeah, but don’t tell your uncle or anyone. We’ll get in trouble for eating too many donuts during the season.”

I slide my eyes over him, trying not to pay too close attention to the way his simple gray t-shirt clings to his muscles. “I think you’ll be just fine.”

“Stop checking me out, Ms. Anderson. We’re here to work. This isn’t a date.”

There’s a bite to the last word, and I wonder if I offended him by being so quick to correct Scout about our relationship status. It’s just that if the other players are coming here often, the last thing I need is for her to say something to one of them about Smith and me and have it get passed around the locker room. That’s how rumors start. That’s how we get memos sent out.

That’s how people lose their jobs.

And by actually breaking the rules.

I shove down the thought, locking it tightly away in a box and pushing it to the depths of my mind.

“Speaking of work…”

I pull a small travel-sized tripod from my bag and set it up, getting my phone ready to make some short videos we can use across a few different platforms. Then I pluck my tablet from my bag, clearing text notifications from Blake and pulling up the questionnaire we’ve been slowly working our way through over the past month. I scroll to find where we left off last.

“All right, so we left off with…” My voice trails off when I realize Smith is staring at me, head tipped to the side, mouth set in a firm line. “What? Do I have something on my face?” I reach up to check but find nothing.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s…” Another headshake. “Nothing.”

But it’s not nothing. I know it’s not nothing.

He’s thinking about the same things I am, and I’m starting to wonder just how much longer we’re going to be able to keep our bubble alive.

He clears his throat, shifting on the bench. “So, where’d we leave off?”

“This question is from Kaden, age five,” I tell him, reading off the list. “If you were a dinosaur, what kind would you be, and why would it be a T-rex?”

Smith laughs. “Hard-hitting questions. I like it. So, I’d be…” He dives into a very detailed explanation of his answer, and I love that he takes it seriously.

We spend the next half hour going through the rapid-fire questions, getting a good number of videos saved so we can spread them out and post them over the next several weeks. Tori has been pleased with everything I’ve gotten Smith to agree to so far. She has no idea it’s because I’ve been promising him blow jobs in exchange for content.

“All right,” I say once we reach the end of the list. “I think that’s good for today.”

“Yeah?” Smith rises from the table, stretching. “Does this mean you’re off the rest of the day?”

“Uh, no.” I laugh at the way he bounces his brows up and down and start packing up my things. “I have to go back to the office and start editing these, and you need to take a pre-game nap, Mr. Hockey Star.”

“We can nap together?” he tries, coming around the table to wrap an arm around my waist and tug me close.

I hate the way my eyes scan the lot, making sure nobody is watching. Thankfully, the place is totally empty now, and aside from Scout’s sister in the truck, we’re alone. I sag against him, letting him press soft kisses into my neck.

“Come on. Naps are way more fun with you.”

“That’s because we don’t nap!”

“True.”

He presses against me harder, and there is no mistaking the erection I feel against my ass. He nips at my neck, then runs his tongue over the same spot, licking away the sting from his bite. I tug my lip between my teeth, trying to fight the moan that’s threatening its way up my throat.

“It’s not my fault,” he says into my ear, his fingers dangerously close to slipping under my skirt. “You taste too good.” He grinds against me again. “There’s always now.”

“Hmm?”

“If you won’t come home with me, there’s always now. My truck is pretty big, you know…”

I groan at the thought of straddling Smith in the back seat, riding him until we’re both exhausted.

“Emilia…”

A vehicle with music thumping loudly races into the parking lot, and it’s enough to pull me from my stupor. I wiggle out of his hold, and he lets me go easily, not-so-subtly adjusting the bulge in his pants. I clear my throat, pressing out the wrinkles in my clothes, then finish packing up my things.

We throw our trash away, and Smith’s hand finds the small of my back again as we make our way to his truck. It’s a simple touch, a thoughtless one, but it’s still making my skin burn beneath his fingertips, and I wonder if it’ll always feel that way with him, if he’ll always make me feel like I’m constantly on the edge of something great.

He pulls the door open for me, helping me into the passenger seat.

“Smith?” I say, just before he’s about to close the door.

“Yes?”

“Ten minutes, but that’s it.”

He grins. “I only need nine.”