Sin Bin (Denver Rebels Book 3)

by Maureen Smith

  He stood awkwardly by the door like a dirty sinner, watching as Hunter soundlessly crossed the room to light candles and incense. On his left bicep was a Japanese kanji tattoo with a ninja sword symbolizing bravery and valor.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Logan. “You waiting for an invitation?”

  Logan swallowed and stepped through the door. The space was full of soft diffused light that added an air of tranquility. As fragrant smoke from the incense sticks wafted toward him, he plucked at the collar of his sweatshirt. “Kinda warm in here, isn’t it?”

  “Take off your shirt if you’re hot.”

  Logan grinned crookedly. “You’re just looking for an excuse to see my ripped chest.”

  Hunter snorted. “I see your swinging dick in the locker room every day. That’s more than enough for me.”

  Logan laughed and pulled off his sweatshirt, tossing it somewhere behind him.

  Hunter shot him a reproachful look.

  “Sorry.” Feeling like a chastened toddler, Logan went over and picked up his shirt. He made an exaggerated show of folding it neatly and placing it on a small bamboo bench in the corner before he turned to smirk at Hunter. “Happy?”

  Hunter gave him a philosophical smile. “An orderly environment fosters an orderly mind.”

  Logan chuckled. “Whatever you say, Confucius.”

  Hunter turned, studying Logan with those shrewd eyes that always saw way too fucking much.

  “What?”

  “Just trying to see where your head’s at today.” Hunter’s tone gentled. “How’re you feeling?”

  Logan shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Look, I already bared my soul to you guys over lunch yesterday. Whatever emotions I haven’t worked through will get worked out on the ice tomorrow. If someone’s face happens to get in the way, all the better,” he quipped, half joking but half serious.

  Hunter frowned. “So you’re going into our first playoff game expecting to drop the gloves. Is that it?”

  “Hey, man, what can I say? Hockey’s a violent sport.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.”

  Logan snorted. “Fuck outta here.”

  “I’m totally serious,” Hunter argued, walking up to him. “I’m half Italian. You think I didn’t inherit hot-blooded genes? You think I’m never tempted to drop the gloves and fight? You think I don’t wanna pulverize assholes when they talk shit or make dirty plays?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  “Hell fucking yeah. But I’ve learned to harness my anger and exercise restraint.” Hunter tapped his temple. “‘The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting,’” he quoted.

  Logan smirked. “Sun Tzu?”

  “Of course.” Hunter folded his arms across his chest. “The point is, you don’t always have to fight. The time you spend in the penalty box is time you could be contributing on the ice.”

  “I know that,” Logan grumbled irritably. “Anyway, why are you busting my balls? I’m not the aggressor in these fights—”

  Hunter coughed.

  “Not always,” Logan insisted heatedly. “That little fucker Brad Marchand is one of the dirtiest players in the league. Am I supposed to let him get away with the crazy stunts he pulls? Nah, fuck that. If assholes wanna start shit, I’m gonna finish it. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Hunter gave him an indulgent smile. “Have you noticed that Reid has been fighting less ever since he got engaged to Nadia?”

  Logan snorted. “Reid’s pussy-whipped.”

  “And you’re not?”

  Logan opened his mouth, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the word No.

  Hunter laughed knowingly.

  Lips twitching, Logan jabbed a finger at him. “By the way, no more private dinners with my woman.”

  Hunter lifted an amused eyebrow. “Or what?”

  “Or I’ma kick your ass.”

  Hunter chuckled softly. “No, you’re not.”

  “No?” Logan playfully put up his fists. “Let’s go, samurai.”

  Hunter’s eyes gleamed with amusement. The next second he dropped gracefully and swept Logan’s legs out from under him with controlled precision.

  It happened so fast, Logan barely had time to react before he was flat on his back, staring up at Hunter in slack-jawed disbelief.

  “Dude, what the hell?”

  Hunter stood over him with a hint of a satisfied smirk. “You might be able to beat me with brute strength, but I can disarm you with patience, skill and strategy.”

  Logan scowled as Hunter reached down and grabbed his hand, helping him to his feet. His pride was wounded. He’d seen Hunter fight before, but he’d never unleashed any of those ninja moves.

  “How the hell’d you do that?” Logan groused.

  “I’ll show you later.” Hunter clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s meditate.”

  Logan gave him a wary look. “I don’t think I’m ready for any of that chanting and humming shit—”

  “Relax, man. We’re just gonna do some deep breathing exercises. Nothing scary.” Hunter sat cross-legged on the floor.

  Logan reluctantly dropped down beside him, grumbling under his breath, “My own captain trying to injure me the night before playoffs. Ain’t that some shit?”

  Hunter’s lips twitched. “If I wanted to hurt you, Bruiser, I would have. Now focus.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head slightly.

  Logan sighed and mimicked the captain’s pose.

  “Take a deep breath, hold it, exhale slowly,” Hunter quietly instructed. “Repeat.”

  Logan closed his eyes and pushed out a deep breath. Tension tightened the muscles in his neck.

  “You’re not focusing,” Hunter murmured.

  “I’m trying,” Logan bit out.

  “No, you’re not. Focus on your breathing.”

  Logan screwed his eyes shut tighter and willed himself to concentrate on Hunter’s instructions.

  “Take a long, slow breath in.” His voice was deep and soothing, laced with command. “As you exhale, release all the stress you’re holding in your body. Let out all that negative energy that’s poisoning you.”

  With his eyes closed, Logan tried to push out of his mind the memory of sitting alone at that booth, waiting for his mother to return. His breathing quickened as he remembered the fear and confusion he’d felt, the rising sense of panic. He envisioned his mother driving away from the casino, tears shining in her eyes. He imagined her flying halfway around the world to Argentina, embarking on a new life without him, starting a new family while he was shuffled from home to home, always trying to fit in, always hoping to belong. He saw Cheyenne’s face looming above him, her blue eyes filled with desires he didn’t understand, her lips whispering secrets he didn’t want to keep—

  “You’re not your past. It doesn’t define you.” The reassuring murmur of Hunter’s voice penetrated his thoughts, coaxing him away from the edge of the cliff. Away from the dark abyss he’d been staring into.

  He pushed on with his breathing. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

  Hunter was talking quietly about his healing journey, about the need for him to take back his power and reclaim what was stolen from him. The hypnotic words began breaking through the wall of fury surrounding his heart, creating deep fissures and chiseling away at the foundation.

  Suddenly he saw himself walking toward a flickering light. As he got closer, the light grew stronger, taking the form of a woman. It was Jupiter. Her aura was almost blindingly bright, obliterating everything around her. She was smiling radiantly at him, her eyes shimmering with laughter and love. So much love.

  He smiled and started walking faster. And then he was running, his heart filling with light and hope. By the time he reached Jupiter, he was breathless with happy laughter. Just as he threw his arms around her, she exploded like a supernova, showering him with sparkling bursts of stardust—

  He gasped sharply, his eye
s flying open. He looked quickly around, his heart slamming away inside his chest.

  Hunter put a calming hand on his shoulder, drawing his unfocused stare. “You okay?”

  Logan inhaled a shaky breath and swiped at his watery eyes with the back of his hand. “Shit,” he whispered. “What was that?”

  Hunter studied him. “What did you see?”

  Logan shook his head to clear it, feeling as if he were waking from a dream. Dazed, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and looked over at the curling wisps of incense smoke, half wondering what kind of hallucinogens he’d been inhaling.

  Hunter got up slowly. “Hey. Look at me.” He clapped his hands on either side of Logan’s head and peered intently into his eyes. “You can get through this. All right? It’s a process. It won’t happen overnight. But you got this.”

  Logan swallowed hard and nodded. “I got this.”

  “Atta boy.” Hunter grinned and kissed him on the cheek in that Italian way of his that always made Logan feel like he was in some mobster movie. “Now let’s go eat.”

  Logan flashed a wobbly grin. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

  As they shrugged back into their shirts, Logan pointed across the room. “Those are incense sticks, right?”

  “Yeah.” Hunter gave him a puzzled look. “What else would they be?”

  Logan chuckled quietly. “What indeed.”

  Dusk was falling as they returned to the main house. Even before they entered the enormous chef’s kitchen, Logan was sniffing the air and groaning with pleasure. “God, that smells fantastic.”

  Hunter grinned, walking toward the double ovens to check the Ossobuco. The bone-in veal shanks were slow cooked in a savory broth of meat stock, white wine and vegetables. They took about three hours to cook and were worth every second.

  “I know Reid and Viggo will be showing up any minute,” Hunter drawled humorously, “so I made plenty.”

  “Good call.” Logan plopped down on a stool at the massive center island and turned on the LED TV mounted above the wine bar. Hunter immediately took the remote from him and clicked off the TV.

  Logan protested, “Hey—”

  “You know I don’t watch television when I’m cooking. Cooking is therapeutic for me. I don’t like to pollute the experience with mindless background chatter.”

  Logan asked the obvious question: “Then why do you have a TV in your kitchen?”

  “Because I can.” Hunter put on some classical music and poured them each a glass of wine. Then he started taking out ingredients for the gremolata and risotto he usually served with the veal shanks.

  “I don’t think my Ossobuco would turn out anywhere near as good as yours,” Logan said. “You’ll have to give me a different recipe. Something I can handle.”

  Hunter chuckled, washing his hands at the sink. “You underestimate yourself. You know your way around the kitchen.”

  “Not as well as you,” Logan said with a sulky grin. “It’s so fucking unfair how good you are at everything.”

  “Not everything,” Hunter drawled.

  “What aren’t you good at?” Logan challenged.

  Hunter thought for a moment. “My dancing skills could use some work.”

  “Bullshit. I’ve seen you dance—”

  “You’ve seen me waltz at formal events.”

  “Yeah, and you’re pretty damn smooth, Fred Astaire.”

  “True,” Hunter acknowledged. “But I’m talking about the kind of dancing you guys are so good at. The kind that gets women all hot and bothered.”

  Logan paused with his glass halfway to his mouth, a slow grin stretching across his face. “You wanna make the ladies scream, Captain?”

  Hunter’s mouth kicked up in a devilish half grin. “I assure you I’ve never had a problem in that area.”

  Logan threw back his head with a shout of laughter.

  Chuckling, Hunter set a cutting board on the center island and got to work chopping fresh parsley. “Tell me about Cynara.”

  Logan almost choked on the sip of wine he’d just taken. “What the fuck?”

  Hunter blinked. “What?”

  Logan wiped his mouth. “Dude, you can’t segue from dirty innuendo to asking about Santino’s daughter.”

  Hunter’s lips twitched. “My apologies for the jarring transition.”

  Logan grunted and took a gulp of the dark red wine.

  “But my request stands.”

  Logan eyed him suspiciously. “What do you want to know about Cynara?”

  Hunter lifted a broad shoulder. “Whatever you want to share. Beyond what you’ve already told me about her.”

  Logan shook his head. “You don’t wanna go down that road.”

  “What road?” Hunter drawled, deftly chopping garlic with a chef’s expertise. “I just want to learn more about her, that’s all.”

  Logan narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “She seems like a complex woman. As you know, complex women fascinate me.”

  Logan frowned, shaking his head. “Don’t do it, bro. I’m telling you. Just stay away from her. For your own good.”

  Hunter looked even more intrigued. He didn’t just welcome challenges—he actively went looking for them. But this particular challenge could get him heartbroken at best, killed at worst.

  “Look,” Logan said, “even though they’re estranged, Santino is super protective of his daughter. He doesn’t think anyone’s good enough for her—”

  “I know,” Hunter said dryly. “He made that abundantly clear in Vegas.”

  “Exactly. He already warned you off once. Next time he won’t be so polite. So just leave it alone, man.” Logan took another gulp of wine and set the glass down. “Anyway, I don’t wanna get caught in the middle between my best friend and the only father I’ve ever known. So just forget about the Duchess.”

  Hunter met his gaze across the island counter. There was an almost predatory gleam in his eyes.

  Logan looked up at the ceiling and shook his head in defeat. “You’re not gonna forget about her, are you?”

  “I can’t,” Hunter said simply.

  “Fuuuccck.” Logan shoved both hands through his hair and groaned. “Of all the women for you to lose your mind over, you just had to choose the Duchess.”

  “She’s fucking gorgeous. And her skin is just…” Hunter trailed off helplessly. It was the first time Logan had ever seen him at a loss for words. No, scratch that. It was the second time. The first time was when he met Cynara.

  “Coño.” Logan shook his head and blew out a resigned sigh. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I’ll consider myself forewarned.” Hunter’s eyes were glittering. “Now start talking.”

  “Aye aye, Captain.” Logan drained the remaining contents of his glass and poured himself more wine. “Let’s see...what can I tell you about the Duchess? As I’ve mentioned before, she’s a women’s rights advocate and a U.N. ambassador, so she’s involved in a lot of philanthropic projects—like you. She has a shit ton of friends around the world and she’s multilingual—also like you. She’s fluent in Spanish, French, Igbo and Swahili. But she rarely speaks Spanish because she doesn’t embrace her Latino side—you know, daddy issues. And because of me, she hates hockey with the heat of a thousand burning suns. So good luck with that.”

  Hunter listened with impassive calm. But Logan had seen that look before. He knew Hunter was cataloguing every detail as if he were strategizing a game plan.

  “You said she doesn’t embrace her Latino ancestry because she has issues with her father.”

  “Major issues,” Logan said ruefully. “Her feelings are justified, but there’s a lot to unpack there.”

  Hunter nodded slowly, absorbing this information as he wiped his hands on a dishcloth and picked up his wineglass. “Does she date nonblack men?”

  “She does, but she prefers men of color.” Logan hesitated before adding, “She’s jaded about marriage because of her parents. But I
’ve heard her say on more than one occasion that if she ever does get married, it’ll be to a black man in the diaspora.”

  Hunter nodded again, staring into his glass for a long moment. “Does she have any deep-seated racial hangups?”

  Logan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Hunter sipped his wine and lowered the glass to the counter. “A few years ago I dated this amazing black woman from Missouri. She was beautiful and she wore her hair in this sexy little Afro that I absolutely loved. We didn’t share many interests, but that didn’t really bother me because I’m always open to exploring new things. She was smart and educated and classy, and I admired how socially conscious she was. A woman with a strong sense of racial pride is incredibly appealing to me. But this particular woman took things to an extreme. She had a ton of anger and hostility toward white people. Wherever we went, no matter what we were doing, everything out of her mouth was ‘the white man this, the white man that.’ It was exhausting and frustrating, and it became a huge turnoff.”

  “I can imagine,” Logan said with a grimace.

  Hunter’s expression hardened. “You know I have no tolerance for racists. I wish they could be wiped off the face of the earth, never to exist again. They’re primarily responsible for the horrendous state of race relations in this country. Fuck every last one of them,” he growled, his Québécois accent thickening. “But here’s the thing. Just as I would never date a white supremacist, I refuse to date another woman of color who hates all white people. Relationships are challenging enough without adding racial animus and strife. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I think real love can overcome just about anything, and I know people can evolve and change their views over time. But I don’t have the patience or desire to stay in a relationship where I’m constantly being judged and blamed for the despicable actions of other white people. I won’t spend the rest of my life atoning for their sins.”

  “I hear you, bro,” Logan grimly commiserated. “I was raised by a man who proudly identifies as Afro-Latino. He never shied away from discussions about racism, colorism, and the legacy of slavery in America and the Dominican Republic. He talked frankly about white privilege and explained the many advantages I would always have as a white person. He took me to protest marches and made sure I understood what people were fighting for.”