Page 26 of Game Misconduct
For now.
CHAPTER SIX
Maddox
The Vipers’locker room, also called the Hiss Room, is loud.
Obnoxiously loud.
There’s no reverence, no order.
Just bodies and chaos and too many scents fighting for dominance—sweat, detergent, cedar planks, and cologne that smells like a tequila hangover in Vegas.
It’s a far cry from the reverent stillness I left behind. Boston was mahogany benches and history on the walls. You didn’t speak unless you had something worth saying.
Here, it’s slick, modern, and new with the walls vibrating from a Post Malone track blasting from a hidden speaker.
Half the guys are yelling over one another, and someone’s drawn a massive cartoon dick over the penalty kill setup on the whiteboard.
What the fuck did I sign up for?
I step in, gear bag over my shoulder, every sense stretched tight. No one rushes to greet me, not that I expected it. But every head turns, just for a beat.
Long enough to size me up.
“Hey, boys, look alive. Boston’s bad boy just wandered in—hope the penalty box here is reinforced.”
And the first barb is thrown.
By Riley Hunt no less, which doesn’t surprise me.
He’s all grin and ego, hair styled like he didn’t sweat through a warmup. Skates unlaced, posture loose, but his eyes are sharp—the kind of sharp that cuts just for the sake of it.
A peacock in hockey gear. All showy feathers and noise, waiting for an audience.
Laughter hits in a wave. Testing. Measuring.
“Should we bow? Or just roll out a walker and save the paramedics the trip?”
I keep my expression neutral. Let them bark. Let him flex. I’ve seen a dozen Rileys flame out by Christmas.
The room doesn’t stop, but it hums differently. A few guys laugh. A couple glance at each other.
Logan Beck whistles under his breath as he continues lacing up. Calm, composed, like he’s already in mid-season form while the rest of them posture. He’s polished as hell—one of those guys who belongs in every room, and he knows it.
Captain Jace Rourke—silent, solid, spine straight—doesn’t look away from his stick as he tapes the blade with military precision.
Eli Ramsey sits a few stalls down, tape winding methodically around his own stick. He doesn’t join the noise—from what I know of the man, he never does—but the hard edges in his silence carry weight.
The kind of guy who grinds until you forget he’s there, right up until he knocks you flat.
Beau Radford hangs back near the rookies, steady hum in the chaos. He leans over to help one of them sort out tangled straps, voice low, calm, like the caretaker role fits him even while he’s lacing up to break bodies.
They’re all ignoring Riley and his posturing, so I know what he wants from me.
He wants a reaction.
Hell, he’s fishing for it.
