Page 29 of Game Misconduct
The curve of her lip when she handed me that contract. The frost in her voice when she walked away.
The fire she left behind.
I bury it. I have to.
This is the only place I’m still mine.
I step out onto the rubber mat, shoulder to shoulder with the rook.
Cal doesn’t look at me. But his knuckles are white around his stick.
“Keep your head down,” I mutter, voice too low for anyone else to hear. “And skate like you mean it.”
His head jerks up. Just for a second.
Then he nods. One quick, sharp movement. Like it costs him something.
The first edge of my blade hits the ice, and every noise dies.
Cold rushes up my legs. Familiar. Brutal. Perfect.
The rink is a blank slate. But it remembers everything.
I take a breath that feels like a blade down my throat.
Let them watch. Let them doubt.
Riley wants a show? He’s gonna get it.
Jace wants answers? I’ll write them in fucking blood.
Finn wants chaos?
I’ll give him fire.
Out here, I don’t owe anyone a word.
Just the game.
And that’s the only language I’ve ever spoken fluently.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sloane
There’s a moment,every season, when the ice goes quiet.
That hush between drills—skates stilled, sticks braced on knees, chests rising and falling in steam-laced clouds. It’s like the eye of a hurricane, all quiet waiting for the storm.
The moment hangs heavy above the rink while Maddox’s gaze locks with mine through three inches of glass and the echoing silence of empty seats.
Just me.
Just him.
My pulse drums in my throat, so loud I worry he can hear it from the ice. I drop my hand from the lapel of my blazer when I realize I’m fidgeting.
I can’t give away the fact that when he looks at me, the skin at the back of my neck prickles the way dry ice burns—slow, certain, and unforgettable.
