Page 31 of Game Misconduct
We have his stats from the Boston years and as legendary as he is, they come with all the caveats and baggage from the last few years.
What we don’t have—and what I need to bring—is what it feels like when he’s on the ice with our guys.
The way the air shifts. The way the rookies sneak glances at him when they think no one’s watching.
The way Riley, all teeth and swagger, keeps drifting too close to the blue paint like a moth daring itself toward flame.
Speaking of Riley, he takes a breakaway, coming in fast, shoulder dropped, telegraphing top shelf.
Maddox waits, patient, then robs him with a glove snap so arrogant it borders on cruel.
I take a breath through my nose and smell cold, rubber, and a citrus cleaner that never quite kills the sweat.
Holt blows long and sharp. “Net-front battles!”
Assistants dump pucks into the corners, two at a time. Defense crashes back, forwards crash the crease. Screens, tips, rebounds…it’s pure madness on the ice.
Riley plants himself square in front, hacking for sight lines. Maddox slams his right pad flat to the ice, leaning hard into the post, the other leg braced up to block high. It’s a stance that eats pucks alive if done right—no daylight, no room, no mercy.
The puck rockets toward the net, but Maddox kicks it out with his pad and uses his hips to lever Riley just far enough off balance that the kid hacks air.
Not dirty, just surgical precision.
Riley stumbles, recovers, and spits out something I can’t hear.
But as much as he’s trying to rile him up, Maddox doesn’t bite.
He’s already reset, eyes following the next pass.
The man’s got leadership qualities in spades. There’s no wasted motions or violence. He keeps it all contained until the exact second it needs to be used.
Something loosens inside my chest and then tightens again. I uncurl my fingers from the rail and rub the indentations with my thumb.
“Control,” my father used to say. “Talent is for show. Control wins the room.”
That was his gospel, and I believed it.
Still do.
But after watching Maddox, I’m beginning to think control can also be something else—it can be lethal, hot, and with a promise waiting for a trigger.
Holt shifts them into a half-ice scrimmage. It’s full of quick changes, and the tempo is nasty.
It’s the kind of session that looks like chaos to civilians but is pure math in motion. Maddox is the constant that keeps the equation balanced.
He calls short, sharp cues—pointing, tapping his stick, steering traffic with a twitch of his glove.
Our defense collapses tighter, lanes close. He gets three shots in five seconds, chest, pad, glove, then freezes the puck like he’s ending an argument.
I can sell that to the board.
I can also feel my pulse in places I shouldn’t.
As practice continues, players shout and slam. Coaches bark out orders and tips. Trainers shuttle water and Gatorade.
Maddox peels a glove off, flexes his hand, scar flashing. He looks up again. Not long. Just enough.
My breath hitches, my body answering in ways that make me want to step back and give myself a lecture.
