Page 13 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

“A jock strap,” he answers literally. “Oh. I’m just in a pissy mood, I guess.

Birdie was supposed to come tonight but she begged off.

She worked a full shift at the salon then styled hair for a wedding and she’s exhausted, so she decided to stay in.

I thought she was on her way over, but I just got a text saying she changed her mind.

Her costume was badass, though. She made this whole dress out of drug store receipts. It had a train and everything.”

“Nice,” I say, because that sounds pretty fucking cool. I know how close Mickey and his twin sister are, and I know that she’s had a rough time of it lately. He thought that transferring to Bainbridge would help, but she tends to keep to herself, unlike Mick, who’s never met a stranger.

“I just worry about her. How’s she ever gonna meet people and make friends if she doesn’t come to shit like this?”

Again, I shrug, feeling useless. I should be able to make my buddy feel better, but I can’t come up with anything good to say.

“She hung out with us a couple times this summer,” I remind him.

“She’ll come around. She’s probably tired as fuck.

Find a weekend she’s free and we’ll throw another party. One that doesn’t suck.”

Mickey surveys the crowd. “It’s not that bad,” he says, trying to reassure me.

“Dude. No need to sugarcoat shit. The fucking freshmen didn’t even show. Their team is hosting a party where clothing is outlawed, and they chose to go somewhere else? That’s a pretty fucking bad sign right there.”

“Baby Santos isn’t here?” he asks, looking around. I take a step back to avoid being nailed in the junk by his massive mailbox.

“Nah, he and the two kids named Mason had something going on in the dorms, so they skipped out. I think it’s literally the first time in BU hockey history that players have skipped our party to go to a different one.”

“They don’t know what they’re missing, Olls. Seriously. The ball pit was fucking awesome.”

“Yeah, until it got flooded.”

“That made it more fun,” he insists. “The hail sucked, though.” Mickey glances down and I notice a dent in his mailbox. Ouch. That could have been disastrous. I’ve got to admire the guy for protecting his junk.

A flash of color snags my attention and I’m momentarily distracted by the sight of long, shapely legs that lead up to curvy hips, a narrow waist, and a full pair of tits that makes my mouth water.

The fact that Fallon’s wearing a skirt and top crafted out of cereal boxes does nothing to take away from how hot she is.

Fuck, it just makes me hungry. And what the hell is with her clothing choice, anyway?

She doesn’t eat cereal for breakfast. She makes fun of me for inhaling the stuff and calls it cold soup.

If she hates it so much, then why did she wrap herself in it?

And why is she now a walking advertisement for Toasty Oats, my favorite fucking breakfast?

Is she trying to fuck with my head? Or is that all she could find in the recycling bin?

Either way, it’s driving me crazy, just like the fact that two assholes from the LAX team are shamelessly flirting with her.

I can’t blame them. She’s hot as hell and funny as fuck, but it’s not a typical type of humor.

Their fake laughter is a sure sign that she’s pelting them with her signature dad jokes right now.

Fuck them for not appreciating her brand of comedy.

And fuck them for standing so close to her.

And fuck them for not knowing ASL and for making her read their stupid lips.

Don’t they know that with all the noise in this room her hearing aids are basically useless?

I’d bet money she has them turned off. She gets headaches from the damn things anyway.

A shout from across the room has me reluctantly peeling my gaze away from Fallon to find Dutton Wagner shoving Jake Lanza in the chest.

Shit.

Lanza is on the baseball team, and he can be a dick—especially when he’s drunk—but he’s mostly harmless.

Wagner’s an unknown quantity, though. I’ve never partied with the guy, so I’ve got no clue what he’s like when he’s had a few.

But I have played against him, and he’s a mean motherfucker when he wants to be.

This could get really bad really fast.

“C’mon,” I say, nudging Mickey. “Let’s break this shit up before it gets out of hand.”

I expect my overactive teammate to kick it into high gear, but he just leans against the wall. “Maybe we should let nature take its course?” he asks hopefully.

“Fuck no,” I answer decisively. “I know you hate Wagner, but he’s a hell of a player and the fact is we need him, whether we want to admit it or not.”

“I know that,” Mickey concedes. “But I wouldn’t mind watching him rearrange Lanza’s face just for a minute. I’ll jump in before he breaks anything important.”

I’ve got no clue what Mickey’s beef with Lanza is, but when the baseball player pushes back against Wagner’s chest, I watch as our new center drops his left hand and curls it into a fist.

Dammit.

I’m across the room in two seconds and Mickey’s right behind me. He’s wrapped an arm around Wagner’s and that may have prevented one bloodbath, but it might just start another.

“Get the fuck off me,” Wagner snarls.

“Then calm the fuck down,” Mick says, getting right up in his face.

I managed to herd Lanza into the kitchen where Deano’s looking after him, but if we’re going to keep the peace, I need a more permanent strategy.

I search the room for Blue. I’ve got no idea what Lanza did or said to set Wagner off, but I know Blue Halliday is the one person in this house who can talk some sense into him.

When I find Wagner’s bestie, I realize he’s in no shape to rescue anybody. The man’s as big as a damn bear—he rivals Pete Santos in size—and he’s currently trying to ride the mechanical bull.

He’s got a bottle of Jack in one hand and a cowboy hat in the other. He can’t do any actual damage because the bull’s out of commission, but he’s also not going to be any help diffusing the situation with Wagner.

Fuck.

I’m doing my best at damage control, but these guys aren’t making it easy. “Mick, go unplug the damn bull. I’m sick of listening to it moan. And see if you can talk Blue into heading upstairs to his bed before he falls asleep on it.”

Mickey gives Wagner one last glare—and earns one in return. That one extra second is all it takes for chaos to erupt.

I don’t know if there was a power surge or if Blue flipped a switch that we weren’t aware of, but in the split second that it takes for Wagner and Mickey to exchange death stares, the mechanical bull jolts back to life.

We all stare in horror as the beast bucks and jerks. Blue tosses the cowboy hat into the crowd and reaches for a horn to hang on for dear life.

It’s an admirable effort, but either the bull’s making up for lost time or else Blue’s switched it into high gear.

The thing lurches forward then rears up in the opposite direction and the abrupt change of course is too much for Blue.

He goes flying through the air but somehow manages to land on the edge of the sofa so it cushions his fall.

The bottle of Jack he was holding isn’t so lucky.

I know what’s coming, but I still wince at the sound of glass shattering as it hits the hard marble tile in the entryway to the kitchen.

I hear Blue groan as he tries to sit up. At first, I’m worried that he broke something, but one look at the gray color on his face tells me what’s coming next.

Right there, on our living room carpet, in front of about fifty people, Blue tosses his cookies all over himself.

Fuuuuuck.