Page 57 of Game Misconduct
The elevator dings, doors parting onto the garage. The tension follows us out, our footsteps echoing sharp against the concrete.
I should let him walk out to his car, drive alone, keep the distance we both pretend we want. Instead, I hear myself say, “We’re going to the same place. Ride with me.”
His eyes narrow, like he’s debating whether to refuse just to spite me. Then his mouth twists. “Fine. But I call shotgun.”
I arch a brow, unlocking the car with a tap. “You’re lucky I don’t make you sit in the back.”
The corner of his mouth twitches like he almost smiles, but it’s gone before I can breathe it in.
My keys feel too small in my hand. And when he slides into the passenger seat, the cabin of my SUV is too confined for how close this already feels.
The first few blocks are silent. And while my hands are steady on the wheel, my pulse is anything but.
Finally, he mutters, “This PR stunt—kids and cameras—it’s a waste of time.”
I don’t look at him. “We’ve talked about this, Maddox. Optics matter. Especially yours.”
“Optics,” he repeats, like it tastes bad. “I hate that fucking word.” He looks out the side window. “I just want to do my job. And that’s playing hockey.”
“You’re more than your stats,” I fire back, heat slipping in. “Sponsors, the board—they want a man they can sell. And the fans want someone they can believe in. They all want more than just a wall in the net.”
He slants me a look, jaw flexing. “Newsflash, Carrington. Walls don’t smile for cameras.”
I grip the wheel harder. “Then try being human instead.”
His laugh is low, rough, and it slides under my skin like sandpaper. “Not sure that’s in the job description either.”
He glances at the console, the playlist still queued from last night.
Pearl Jam - Alive
He smirks. “Didn’t peg you for nineties alternative.”
Heat flashes across my cheeks before I can stop it. “I like what I like.”
“I pictured classical, something like Mozart or Chopin. Something stiff enough to match the suits.”
“Wouldn’t do much good to be lulled to sleep when I’m driving. Besides, I like music that cuts and makes me feel something.”
“Didn’t think you knew that.”
I glance over. “I’m surprised you do.”
His eyes linger on me a beat too long, something unreadable flickering in them. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Same goes.”
Danger hums in the car, louder than the bass line. We shouldn’t be here—talking about music, letting the edges soften.
This isn’t what owners and players do.
But when the next red light hits and I feel his gaze on me, my pulse spikes so hard it rattles my ribs.
Too close. Too human.
Too wrong.
At the same time, the car ride ends too soon.
