Page 20 of Game Misconduct
“Welcome to the Atlanta Vipers, Maddox Lasker.”
Her tone is clean, crisp.
All business.
But the second I take her hand, it stops being about business.
Her fingers curl around mine—firm, steady. Warm.
My thumb grazes the inside of her palm before I even think to stop it.
Her skin is soft there. Sensitive.
That smile falls and her lips part, letting out a strangled gasp, but she doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The silence thickens, and my pulse pounds hard at the base of my throat. She doesn’t look at me, her stare staying on our joined hands.
Then she steps back, slowly, like she had to talk herself into it, and turns toward the tunnel, ready to leave.
The heat of her hand lingers on my skin like a ghost.
“Hey,” I call out.
She pauses. Looks back.
“You said earlier you don’t wait for odds. You make them.”
Her chin lifts. “That’s right.”
“Then don’t waste me.”
That freezes her. Just for a second. And then she nods, once. Solid. Like a promise.
“I don’t plan to,” she says. “But don’t waste yourself either.”
With that, she’s gone.
Her heels echo down the concrete hallway, fading fast, but I stay where I am—sweat drying on my skin, pulse still pounding, silence folding in around me like armor.
I stare out at the ice.
It’s still the same.
Still cold.
Still mine.
For the first time in a long damn time, it feels like somethingmightbe waiting on the other side of this.
I push off the boards and skate another lap.
Not for Boston.
Not even for her.
Just for me.
