Page 19 of Game Misconduct
A muscle shifts along her jaw. She doesn’t speak, but something softens around her eyes.
“Because out there,” I nod toward the doors, “everything was chaos. Home was a mess. School was worse. But here? Here I could disappear. Be something.”
Sloane doesn’t speak. She just listens. Like it matters. LikeImatter.
I swallow hard. The burn in my throat isn’t from skating anymore.
“I thought I’d retire here,” I admit, voice barely audible. “Finish where I started. On my own terms.”
“You still can,” she says gently. “Different city. Different team. But still you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m starting to.” Her eyes don’t waver. “And I know you’re not done.”
That hits like a punch.
The air between us tightens, thickens until you could cut the tension with a knife.
There’s no one else in the rink, but I still feel the weight of this moment pressing in like heat under all the cold.
I step back from the boards, crossing my arms to keep from doing something stupid—like reaching for her.
Her perfume drifts between us, clean and expensive, with something sharper underneath.
Something that reminds me of pressure and control and sex and power.
“You really believe that?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t have flown to Boston if I didn’t.”
I nod once. “Then I guess we’re both gambling.”
She nods back. “High stakes make it interesting.”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “You always talk like this? Like we’re negotiating the fate of the universe?”
Her lips curve slightly. “Only when I am.”
The weight of the silence is heavy as we hold the stare between us.
“I signed that contract for me. Not for you or the team.”
She doesn’t blink. But her chest rises just a little deeper.
“I wasn’t sure if you would,” she says softly.
“I didn’t think I could.” I pause. “Until you looked at me like I still counted.”
Her breath catches. Not loud. Just enough that I feel it like a pull in my gut.
She swallows. Her throat moves just once.
The contract disappears into her bag. Her hands are steady now, but I don’t miss the way she exhales—like she’s been holding her breath all night.
Like my name on that page just gave her permission to breathe again.
She holds out her hand and gives me her best practiced smile.
