Page 24 of Game Misconduct
Statistical Impact.
Integration Risk.
Reputation Risk.
I pull up his player profile.
Maddox Lasker.
His headshot first comes up first, and I can’t deny the hit to my bloodstream when I see him.
Much to my utter dismay, if this is how addicts feel with their drug of choice, I can see why it’s so hard to stop.
Jaw like a blade, eyes so electric blue and mysterious at the same time, they seem unreal. If I hadn’t seen them first-hand, I’d think there was some doctoring of his photo.
His hair is damp and tousled as if he’s just come off the ice and the sight of him on my screen is a physical thing that I can’t control.
My chest contracts, lungs fluttering against the cage of my ribs, and there’s a heaviness at the base of my throat.
All of which only serves to piss me off.
Thesefeelingsare raw and mighty fucking inconvenient.
I scroll through his stats, searching for solace in numbers—goals per game, face-off percentage, penalty minutes, power play conversions.
The data is clean, almost reassuring in its objectivity. But every note I type brings him closer, until I’m no longer analyzing a player but the tremor he set loose in me.
I add another bullet:
Unknown variable: Potential for disruption.
My finger hovers over the delete key, but I leave it. I have to name what I can’t control.
A photo lingers in the preview—him in a corridor after practice, sweat-dark hair, mouth set in a line, eyes full of everything he never says.
I drag it into the presentation, just for reference, but my hand shakes.
Staring at the image, I try to reduce him to a file, a risk, an asset. It’s what a good owner does.
That’s what my father would have done.
But all I can feel is the pounding in my chest, the electric burn under my skin, and the certainty that I’ve let something wild through the gates.
