Page 39 of Game Misconduct
He stonewalled most of the reporters questions, his jaw looking like it was carved from granite.
It’s like he didn’t realize that the less he gave, the more they wanted. Every camera was hungry for more because he gave them nothing at all.
And that didn’t help my case with the board.
I press my palms to the desk, trying to frame it as a win. It was controlled chaos, but the key word is “controlled.”
Except there’s nothing controlled about the way my body betrays me, every nerve firing hot at the memory of our collision in the corridor.
I can still feel the steady weight of Maddox’s hands when he caught me. The heat of his body bled through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
His voice low and sharp as the blades he skates on:You enjoy pulling my strings up there?
The worst part of it all? How much I had enjoyed being pressed against that rock-hard body that vibrated under his suit.
I shake my head, hard, even while my breath stutters.
Nope. No, no, no.
I’m the owner. His boss.
Not some random puck bunny in his orbit.
Not someone’s risk.
But my pulse still trips over itself, proof that control is an illusion I can’t quite grip tonight.
I square my shoulders. “Time to get back to work, Carrington,” I say to the room before picking up my phone and opening the note app.
“Have chat with Holt and Beau about mentoring Cal,” I recite out loud while I type.
And just as I start to type more, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Griff calling…
I groan and mock banging my head on my desk.
“Don’t tell me you actually watched the circus,” I say as I answer.
He laughs, the sound warm, too knowing. “Watched? Cousin, I’ve got the clips on repeat. Your goalie looks like he wanted to strangle every reporter in the room. Great optics, by the way.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Maddox isn’t here to charm reporters. He’s here to win games.”
“Mmhmm.” Griffin stretches the sound out like he’s windingme up. “You sure about that? Looked a lot like a man cashing one last paycheck to me.”
The words prick, sharper than I want them to. “He’s worth it,” I say, too fast. “He’s exactly what this team needs.”
“Whoa. Defensive much?”
“I made a choice. I’ll stand by it.” My voice is clipped steel, but it wavers underneath.
He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, but lets it sit, lets me squirm against it. “Hey. I’m just saying—eyes are on you, Sloane. They’re waiting for you to slip. And you know as well as I do, one stumble and they’ll tear you apart.”
I lean back, eyes on the stretch of trees shrouded in night. No movement, no mercy—just a weight that settles over me the way expectation always does. “Tell me something I don’t know, oh sage one.”
He chuckles, but it’s softer now. “Okay, how about this. I’ve got your back, always. Even if you decide to gamble on broody goalies who look like they eat reporters for breakfast.”
My throat tightens. “I know you do. And I appreciate it.”
