Page 171 of Game Misconduct

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The first slide flickers into view.

A headshot of Maddox in his Boston jersey, jaw tight, eyes flat.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in a decade. I remember staring at that photo for hours, analyzing every detail.

Trying to figure out if I could trust a man like him to represent everything I was fighting for.

HIGH RISK, HIGH REWARD.

That’s the title of the second slide.

God, I was so clinical. So strategic. So in control.

"Potential captain material if emotionally stabilized."

"History of altercations, but team-first loyalty."

"Fanbase response: Polarizing."

I scroll through it slowly, one slide at a time, the corner of my mouth twitching in something that might be a laugh if it didn’t feel like a knife scraping against bone.

Everything here was meant to guard me.

To keep this exactly what it was supposed to be: business.

But somewhere between puck drops and center ice kisses, I lost the plot.

And now I’m sitting here like some heartbroken idiot, rewriting a presentation no one will ever see.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. I start a new slide and type:

REALITY CHECK

– Manipulative

– Untrustworthy

– A threat to legacy

– Unprofessional

– Liability

Each bullet feels like a punch. Not to him. He’s none of those things.

But every single one of those is me.

I try to blink away the sting in my eyes, but my vision blursanyway. I swallow the lump in my throat and reach for my water bottle, like that’s going to fix anything.

Why is it people ask if you want water when you’re hurting or panicking?

Is hydration stronger than heartbreak or anxiety?

The cursor flashes in the corner of the slide like it’s waiting for one more truth.

— Irreparable.

I type it slowly. Each letter a confession.

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