Page 21 of Game Misconduct
I told myself I didn’t care who I played for. Didn’t care where I landed.
But she looked at me like I might be more than what I’ve lost.
Andfuck meif I don’t want to earn it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sloane
Two days.
That’s how long it’s been since Maddox Lasker signed his name on the dotted line.
Two days since I stood in an empty rink in Boston and watched a man unravel in front of me—and still choose to stay in the fight.
Two days since I flew home with his signature on my contract and something far more dangerous lodged behind my ribs.
He’s under my skin.
And I hate how much I feel it.
A low hum of anticipation threads through my bones as I move through the dark, empty tunnel leading out to the arena, my heels echoing—sharp, deliberate, louder than they should be. The air smells faintly of concrete dust and last night’s resin.
I slow at the tunnel’s mouth, where Dean is already waiting.
He leans against the wall like he owns it, posture relaxed, tie loosened just enough to feign ease. His phone is in hand, attention elsewhere.
Smoothing my jacket, I square my shoulders and let the mask settle into place.
Sloane Carrington, CEO of the Atlanta Vipers NEHL Hockey Team.
Untouchable.
The second I step into his periphery, I feel his gaze shift. A flicker of satisfaction there. He likes being ahead of me. Likes the idea of me chasing him, even though I’m technically his boss.
I don’t give him the pleasure.
“Punctual, as always,” Dean says, still not looking up.
“You called this meeting. I showed.”
He pushes off the wall and walks away, expecting me to follow. The shitty part is, I have to.
We head to the conference suite. At the door, he gestures for me to enter.
Raising my chin, I don’t pause, don’t flinch. I walk past him like he doesn’t matter, even though his eyes linger a beat too long as I pass.
Inside, the air is stale and cold. Deliberately so.
The table between us is bare except for one folder dead center, like a landmine. Two leather chairs. No drinks. No pretense. Just a war waiting to be waged.
I sit, crossing one leg over the other, waiting for him to close the door.
He doesn’t sit. Just leans on the edge of the table, wedding band glinting under the fluorescents. Objectively, Dean is a handsome man. But if he’s anything like he is at the office, I pity the poor woman wearing the matching band.
His expression is smooth, his eyes calculating.
“You’ve made quite the splash. Bold move to go to Boston.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Congratulations.”
