Page 1 of Game Misconduct
CHAPTER ONE
Sloane
It takesa hell of a woman to run a hockey team, and headlines like this remind me the world still expects me to fail:
“Trending Hockey News: Is the Atlanta Vipers Second Season Doomed Before It Begins?”
It’s clickbait. Lazy speculation wrapped in a question mark so they can pretend it’s not slander.
But it still hits like a gut punch.
I minimize the tab and pull up the spreadsheet I’ve already combed through three times this morning.
And yep. The one column that matters the most is still using the P word.
Player Contract Status: Maddox Lasker – Pending.
My fingers curl tight around the edge of my desk. I reach for my coffee cup instead only to find it cold.
Again.
That makes threeso far today.
And the sun has barely climbed over the Atlanta skyline.
The fact that I’ve left any coffee behind, much less multiple ones, is how I know I’m coming unglued.
If the cup isn’t empty, I’m not in control—and right now, control is slipping between my fingers faster than this team’s PR narrative.
My cell phone dances a jig on my desk and when I pick it up, I swallow hard when I see the agent’s name on the screen.
Peter Dalton.
Also, when the hell did it become eight o’clock? I came in at six thinking I’d get a shit ton of work done.
Joke’s on me. All I’ve managed to do is waste coffee and work my stomach into knots.
Time is a blur when your entire legacy hangs on a hockey player who gives new meaning to procrastination.
I swipe the screen, putting Peter on speaker. “Please tell me you have news I want to hear.”
“Hey, Sloane. Good morning.” His thick Boston accent fills my office with a tone that’s too casual for my liking.
Then again, Maddox’s agent is always too casual—like if he keeps his voice light enough, I won’t notice he’s full of shit.
Grinding my teeth together, I stand and walk to the window, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor of my office. “I don’t have time for charm. Where’s Maddox’s signature?”
He laughs like we’re on friendly terms. “You know Maddox. He’s… processing.”
“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”
“He’s not trying to be difficult.”
I huff out a humorless laugh, watching the streets fill with traffic. “Maddox Lasker not difficult? We both know that’s bullshit, Peter.”
Another pause. “He’s just used to Boston. That’s a lot of years with the Freeze. A lot of routine. Your offer’s solid. He’s just not sure he wants to uproot.”
“What’s he actually doing? Because from where I sit, it looks a lot like hiding.”
