Page 108 of Game Misconduct

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“You remind me of someone,” I say quietly. “And I didn’t have anyone when I looked like that.”

His gaze sharpens.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Go another few rounds and then get home for some rest before the road trip starts tomorrow. They’re tiring and can be brutal.”

“Got it. Thanks again, Lasker.”

I nod once and skate off the ice.

He doesn’t follow right away.

Good.

He’s not done yet.

I should take my own advice. Head home and get ready for a long road trip stint starting in New York and ending in Seattle.

But I haven’t even caught a glimpse of her all day except for what I see in my mind’s eye.

And I need to see her.

Not because I want to talk about the game.

Not because I’ve got something to say.

But because after practice, after Cal, after the echo of her laugh in my head while I stripped off my skates—I need to know she’s real.

My feet take me in the direction of the elevators and up to the front office floor.

Thankfully, it’s quiet; most of the suits cleared out a long time ago.

But her light’s still on.

Her assistant isn’t at her desk. The door’s cracked just enough.

Yeah, I should definitely go home.

Instead, I knock once.

Her voice drifts out, low and tight. “Come in.”

She’s at her desk in a slim black dress, legs crossed, laptop open. Her hair’s up and her heels are off.

There's a coffee cup in her hand and tension in her spine.

She looks like power.

She looks like the woman I had under me hours ago, nails in my back and breath in my mouth.

And she looks tired.

She blinks once when she sees me, like she wasn’t expecting this—like maybe she figured I wouldn’t follow through on all the things I said to her.

“Hey,” she says, setting down the cup.

I shut the door behind me. “Hey.”

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