Page 34 of Game Misconduct
The next station has video rolling. “Say your name, position, and something fun about yourself.”
Fun about myself?
Jesus Christ.
“Maddox Lasker. Goalie. Fun’s not part of the job.”
The videographers exchange a look and then shuffle me quickly down the line like I’m radioactive.
Which is fine by me if it gets me out of this shit show faster.
I’ve always hated media day. The cameras and platitudes they want aren’t my stage, the crease on the ice rink is.
Out here, it’s all just a bunch of bullshit.
In the large ballroom where the interviews take place, the lights are hotter here than on the ice. White, unrelenting, like they’re designed to bake answers out of you.
Reporters crowd in, microphones thrust like weapons.
“Thirty-nine now, Maddox—how much gas you think you’ve got left in the tank?”
“Big contract for a guy your age. Last paycheck?”
“Atlanta’s banking their first season on you. Think you’ve still got it?”
The words slide in sharp, designed to draw blood. I keep my answers clipped, neutral, just this side of polite.
“Ask me in April. I’m here to play, not talk.”
I level my stare with the guy who brought up my age. “And we’ll see what’s left in the tank when the games matter.”
“Boston ended messy, didn’t it? Care to comment?”
“Is it true about the?—”
The wordincidentfloats between two of them, hushed, barbed. My pulse spikes, and heat licks up the back of my neck. I lock down my jaw so tight my teeth ache.
I won’t give them anything. Not a twitch, not a flinch. My face stays stone, my voice flat. “Next question.”
The urge to shove past them thrums in my chest, sharp and dangerous. But walking out would hand them the story they want.
And I’ve given enough headlines to the league already.
So I lean back into the posture I know best—stillness, patience, control.
Just like in the crease.
Let them fire shot after shot. Let them burn themselves out against the wall I’ve built.
I won’t back down from what I did in Boston, but in order to keep my career intact, I have to move on from it.
I wish these fuckers would move on too.
Behind me, Riley’s laugh cuts through the noise. Bright, cocky, smooth. He’s working the cameras like it’s his job, grinning for every mic shoved his way.
Yep, Peacock is the perfect name for him.
Finn cracks a joke nearby, and the room ripples with laughter.
