Page 51 of Game Misconduct
The look lands like a physical thing—a palm at the base of my neck.
And doesn’t that just make me think all kinds of inappropriate things.
“Mandatory,” he says, like he’s trying the word on.
“Mandatory.”
Something unreadable passes across his face. Not mockery. Not surrender. A private calculation I’m not invited into. Then the mask slides into place. He opens the door and steps out, closing it behind him with a soft click that still feels like a slam.
I take several deep breaths, giving myself a pep talk with each one.
I am steel.
I am Sloane fucking Carrington.
I own this damn team.
I belong here even if they think I don’t.
Time to get back to work.
I have eight emails from Dean, three calendar holds from the league office, a text from Tessa asking for the updated sponsor deck, and Sierra’s draft schedule for Saturday waiting in my inbox.
The work won’t do itself while I sit here vibrating, thinking about how Maddox’s skin felt under my hand.
How I want to feel it again. The muscle, the heat, the control lying just beneath.
And just how much I hate myself for wanting it.
Just one more time.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Maddox
The Pit humslike a live wire.
Fans pressed to the glass, faces painted venom green, every seat filled like it’s the playoffs instead of a meaningless preseason.
But there’s nothing meaningless about tonight.
New city. New logo on my chest.
A first impression I can’t afford to fuck up.
The ice smells fresh—paint still sharp under the sweat and rubber. My pads creak as I shift in the crease, settling into the cage.
Every nerve’s lit. Every sound’s magnified—the slap of pucks on boards, the scrape of blades, the Barracudas shit talking during warm-ups like their mouths can win them the game.
A winger brushes too close on a skate-by, mutters something about “old man legs.” I don’t bite.
Not yet.
My shoulder twinges when I roll it, a reminder I’m not firing clean yet. My body feels slow under the weight of gear that feels heavier than it should. Like it’s lagging a second behind my brain.
I clamp my glove tighter around the stick, force my breath steady. Focus and lock in.
It doesn’t matter how my shoulder feels tonight. What matters is stopping the damn puck.
