Page 185 of Game Misconduct

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“Yeah.”

Jace nods once. “Hang it in The Hiss Room when it’s done.”

There’s no fanfare. No group huddle or pat on the back. Just a room full of guys nodding like I’ve already made my mark.

Like I belong.

Maybe for the first time in my life.

Later, when I get home, I don’t turn the lights on.

Just drop my bag by the door and head straight for the kitchen, grabbing a Gatorade from the fridge I haven’t stocked properly in weeks.

The cold stings my palm. My shoulder’s still aching from the hit I took from Leonard. But none of it touches the fire under my skin.

I should be bone-deep tired.

Instead, I’m wired. Alive.

She’s still in there—behind my ribs, under my skin. No matter how many times I’ve told myself it’s over, the truth doesn’t change.

I want her.

Still.

Always.

And I’m not going out quiet.

I cross the room and grab my sketchpad from the coffee table. It's already open to the Vipers logo I showed the guys. But I flip past it—page after page of half-finished panels, character outlines, old shit that never felt like anything.

Until now.

Until her.

I grab a pencil and start sketching.

Not a game plan.

Not a playbook.

This one’s for her.

She called me out the first time she saw my work. Told me not to hide behind it. Not to flinch.

So I won’t.

The lines come slower tonight. Not because I don’t know what I want to say, but because I want it to be perfect.

The panel starts to take shape. A woman—powerful, head held high, expression unreadable—standing at center ice in heels. Her back’s to the viewer. She’s facing the boards. The stands.

The spotlight’s on her.

Alone.

Except she’s not. Not really.

There’s a speech bubble forming above the ice behind her. Unspoken. Waiting.

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