Page 48 of Game Misconduct
“Perception is louder than truth. You know that, even if you hate it.”
He leans back farther, like he’s testing how much space he can take. “You want me to smile on command and pretend I like being poked.”
“I want you to look like you’re part of something, because you are.”
We stare at each other across twenty-eight inches of walnut. I could tap the desk once and call this done with an edict. I could play the owner card so hard it cracks his teeth.
But power only works once if you wield it like a hammer. The second time, men like him break the hammer.
“There’s a way to fix it,” I slide a folder across the desk with a tab that reads COMMUNITY INITIATIVE in Sierra’s precise handwriting. “Saturday morning at Atlanta Children’s hospital. Photo window is ninety minutes. We’re reading to two rooms, signing jerseys in the atrium, and doing a small meet-and-greet with the oncology floor for those who are up for it. Cameras will be there at the beginning and the end. Middle is just you and the kids.”
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes at the mention of kids. But it’s fleeting, and I almost wonder if I imagined it.
“A dog-and-pony show.”
“A show of decency. They need it. We need it. It’s the right play.”
“Sloane, I don’t have a soft side.”
I meet his eyes and don’t blink. “Yes, you do.”
He doesn’t move, but there’s that flicker of something again. I didn’t imagine it because it takes him a little longer to shut it down this time.
“I’ve seen it, Maddox.”
As soon as I say it, I want to claw the words back.
Not only does he know for sure now that I watch him, but what I’ve seen is dangerous for me.
The way he holds himself still when rookies flail, the way he doesn’t humiliate weakness even when the room would cheer him for it.
The way he let me touch him, for a breath and no more, wrapped him tight and close and didn’t shrug me off.
The way my own body feels traitorous even now.
“You don’t know me,” he says, quiet enough to make my skin prickle.
“Maybe not, but I know what I saw. And I know what it will do for this team if people see it.”
He looks away, huffing out a breath that isn’t quite a laugh. After a moment, his gaze comes back to the folder. He flips it open with two fingers like it might bite him.
His eyes skim the schedule, the talking points Dean insisted we include, the photo thumbnails Sierra curated to look candid. His mouth hardens.
“This is nothing but theater.”
“Be that as it may, it’s good for the community. And for this franchise. One that you agreed to be a a part of when you signed the contract.”
His gaze meets mine, the intensity pinning me to my seat. “I signed the contract to do my job, which is to stop pucks.”
“It’s the core of the job,” I concede. “But this isn’t your first rodeo, and you know as well as I do, that isn’t the whole of it.”
I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “We may not be storied in all the history you’re used to like in Boston, but we’re a professional organization. We do the same kind of community outreach here you did there.”
He lifts a brow. “I didn’t come here to be liked.”
I wish I could tell him I didn’t hire him to be liked. That Ihired him to anchor us when the ice turns ugly and the city gets hungry for blood.
That I hired him because control that violent and clean is rare, and when he’s on the ice the team breathes easier even if they pretend otherwise.
