Page 188 of Game Misconduct
“Still got it,” someone murmurs.
Still got it.
He’s never lost it.
Even when the press tried to rip him apart. When the whispers painted him as washed-up and too volatile to bet on.
When they dragged up Boston again like it was a fresh wound and not a scar he carried every damn day.
He’s never lost it.
And I can’t breathe watching him.
The third period ticks down, and we’re only up by one, 2–1. Overtime potentially looms, the tension so thick I can taste it.
Boston wins a face-off in our zone. They pull their top lineout—including Leonard, of course. I press a hand to the glass in front of me, leaning forward without meaning to.
He’s locked in. Maddox. Every muscle wired, eyes tracking like he’s reading the future.
The puck snaps across the slot?—
A one-timer.
A rocket.
Straight at him.
And he robs it.
Full extension, glove to the heavens, snatching the shot out of the air like it’s personal.
The Pit explodes. The buzzer sounds.
I shoot to my feet, clapping before I even realize what I’m doing, and it takes every ounce of willpower to stop myself from screaming his name like the rest of them.
On the ice, Maddox doesn’t even celebrate.
He just straightens from the crease, skates toward the glass, and looks up at the owner’s box.
Right at me.
The noise dulls. The pounding of my heart is louder than the crowd now.
He holds my gaze like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.
Like he knows what comes next.
Like he’s already made peace with it.
And I haven’t.
“Hell of a save,” one of the sponsors says behind me, clapping. “Man’s got ice in his veins.”
No.
He bleeds.
I’m the only one who saw it.
