Page 18 of Game Misconduct
“Didn’t feel like explaining myself to someone who came into my apartment like she was delivering a goddamn subpoena.”
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Would it have helped if I’d brought donuts?”
“No. But it would've confused the hell out of me.”
Now, she smiles all the way. And fuck me, if I don’t like the way her green eyes light up.
But just as quickly, the smile fades and she watches me like she’s collecting data—reading body language and cataloging every scar.
I hate how good she is at reading me and we just met in person yesterday.
I also hate how much I want her to see something she likes.
I reach into my jacket and pull out the contract. The corners are curled from my hands. I slap it onto the top of the boards.
Her gaze drops. Lingers.
“I’ll sign it,” I say, quiet now. “But not because I believe in your pitch.”
She lifts her eyes back to mine, unreadable. “Why then?”
“Because I don’t know who I am without the game. And I’m not ready to figure that out.”
I pull the pen from my jacket, flip to the final page, and scrawl my name in thick black ink. My hand trembles at the end. Just a little.
But enough that the edges of anger whip through me.
“There.” I slide it toward her. “That’s what you came for, right?”
She doesn’t move. Just stares down at the signature like she’s trying to decide if it’s real. I watch her—jaw tight, shoulders square, fingers curling into the edge of the bench.
For a second, she looks like she’s holding the weight of the whole fucking league.
“I didn’t just come for the signature,” she says, voice lower now. “I came to see you in your element.”
I don’t answer. Because if I do, I’ll say too much. I’ll tell her I feel like I just signed away the only part of me that still made sense.
That Boston wasn’t just a team. It was a lifeline. A home I built from nothing.
A home that threw me away so easily.
And now?
Now I’m back at square one with fifteen years on my body, in a brand new city…
And with a woman who scares the shit out of me.
“You didn’t ask for a bonus. No guarantees. No media clause.” Her tone is careful, curious. “You’re either reckless or serious.”
I meet her eyes. “I’m going to play. Not to phone it in and cash a check.”
Her pupils shift. Just slightly. Like I caught her off guard. Like she wasn’t expecting plain honesty tonight.
She doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
I press my palm flat to the boards to steady myself. “This rink,” I say, eyes sweeping the empty seats, “I used to sneak in at night. When I was fourteen. Lights off, no music, just me and the cold. I’d skate until my legs gave out.”
