Page 16 of Game Misconduct
Instead, I let the message glow against my skin like a dare. A warning.
Or a promise.
I step back from the window, heart hammering. I don’t know if I want to fight him or follow him into the dark.
Maybe both.
Tomorrow night, I’ll meet him at the rink.
And whatever happens next…
I know one thing for sure.
I won’t come out unchanged.
CHAPTER FOUR
Maddox
The ice doesn’t askwho I am. Doesn’t care what I lost. It just waits—clean, cold, honest. Out here, everything else falls away.
My lungs burn, and my quads scream. My skin is slick with sweat under my hoodie as it clings to my spine, and collects at the small of my back.
But I keep going.
I skate like I’m chasing something. Maybe I am. I want to skate whatever this fucking tightness in my chest is that makes breathing difficult.
It’s been here nearly an hour already. I don’t have a clue how many laps I’ve skated so far. All I know is that I’ll keep moving until punishment becomes clarity. Until breath is the only sound and pain’s the only thing louder than her voice in my head.
Only when it matters.
Her words won’t let go of me. Not even after a dozen hard laps.
I dig my blades into the ice and push harder.
Common Ice is empty. Just the hiss of my skates carving into the frozen surface and the rasp of my breath echoing through the rafters.
The overhead lights buzz like they’re judging me, and the chill cuts deeper than usual. Not that I care. I didn’t come here to be warm.
I came to remind myself I still belong somewhere. Even if that somewhere is foreign and not where I planned to end my career.
The last year of my life here in Boston plays like a movie reel in my head. All of the media bullshit, the rumors and whispers, the closed door meetings, and then the final blow.
Why the fuck am I holding on to this place? It’s treated me like shit for the last year. Even though I’ve given this team, this city, this community the best years of my life.
Years I can’t get back.
Blowing out a breath, I push my body harder, faster until it feels like punishment. Even though each lap is better than any therapist I’ve seen.
The ice is the only therapist I’ve ever needed.
My legs shake, my hands go numb, but I still don’t stop skating.
I don’t want easy. I want blood. I want to remember who I am, not who the whole world thinks I am.
The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look to know who it is.
I knew she’d show the second I sent the text last night.
