Page 5 of Game Misconduct
The line goes dead.
My hand curls into a fist that I’d use on his throat if he were standing in front of me.
I jab the button harder than necessary, my blood boiling.
“Find out how long it’ll take the jet to get ready for a trip to Boston.”
Tessa’s already tapping on her phone. “Done. Want me to book a driver too?”
I nod. “And a room. Somewhere quiet.”
“Quiet might be hard in Boston,” she says, already on the move. “But I’ll find you somewhere with thick walls.”
She pauses at the door, tilting her head. “You going to punch Lasker when you get there?”
“I might.”
“Just make sure the cameras are rolling. We need the coverage.”
She flashes a grin and disappears.
I blow out a breath and lean back in my chair. Staring at the ceiling, I breath in for three and out for three. Once, twice, three times before my blood pressure lowers.
Minutes later, with my laptop, phone, and a file folder with the name Maddox Lasker in my tote bag, I’m heading out the door.
I stop at Tessa’s desk. “I’m going home to pack. You know how to find me.”
“Yep. The usual flight crew is on standby and said they’d be ready to leave in an hour and a half, flying out of PDK.”
“Perfect.”
“And Richard’s waiting with the car downstairs. He has the itinerary.”
“Thanks for throwing that together, Tess. I’m so grateful I could cry right now.”
The smile she gives me is genuine. “I’m rooting for you, girl.”
“Glad to know someone is.”
“Call me when you land. And maybe try not to strangle anyone before then.”
“No promises.”
Her laughter follows me down the hall, leading to the elevators.
Thankfully, I’m alone in the elevator when I pull up his profile again.
Maddox Lasker. G1. Age 39. Four-time All-Star. Plays like a weapon. Unrestricted free agent. Played his last full season like the ice owed him something.
The Boston Freeze colors still frame his headshot—blue and silver with that glint of contempt in his eyes.
His photo glares up at me from the screen. Stone-faced. Cut jaw. That faint scar above his eyebrow is like punctuation for a sentence he never says out loud.
There’s no denying it. The man is smoking hot. Always has been.
The kind of man who looks like a warning label and tastes like regret.
The kind of man who’ll fuck you up and make you thank him for the wreckage, which you would do willingly.
