Page 6 of Game Misconduct
The kind of man I’ve always avoided.
But damn if my pulse doesn’t kick just looking at him. Even when I’m ready to wring his neck for tanking my launch momentum.
He’s trouble with a capital T.
Unfortunately, he’s still my best bet.
The elevator dings and I straighten, slipping my phone into my purse. In the few moments before the steel doors open, I see my reflection.
On the outside, I look like what I am. Composed CEO. Franchise owner. Woman on a mission.
But underneath?
Underneath, I’m already bracing for the collision.
Let Maddox Lasker glare all he wants. Let him brood in his fortress of Boston solitude.
If he won’t come to Atlanta, then I’ll bring Atlanta to him.
CHAPTER TWO
Maddox
“IsMaddox Lasker being traded from Boston? Reports from The Freeze front office won’t confirm or deny, but sources close to the team say Lasker’s days are numbered.”
The perfectly coiffed blonde continues as I stare at the TV screen—sports highlights flashing by, each replay twisting the knife of my career.
My pulse pounds with each commentator’s dissection of my stats.
Alone, perched on the edge of the sleek gray couch in my Boston apartment, I usually find a certain peace in being by myself. In my minimalistic sanctuary.
Minimalism means less baggage, fewer ways for the world to get its hooks in me.
It's supposed to feel liberating.
Spoiler alert: right now, it doesn't.
My gaze sweeps around my condo, taking in the smooth surfaces, where not even dust dares to hang around. With a gut punch, I realize just how much it reflects me—empty, controlled, almost aggressivelyuncluttered.
Restlessness rises in my chest, pushing me to stand and cross to the large window looking out over the city.
Down below on the street, the city hums—horns blare, people walk fast, eyes down, because eye contact only invites inane conversation.
And who’s got time for that?
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Hard eyes stare back, rimmed with shadows and edged in bitterness.
I barely recognize the man in the glass. And I have no idea what the hell to do about it.
But the team knew what to do, didn’t they?
Boston to Atlanta. Traded like broken furniture—shuffled off, too volatile to keep. A liability, a PR nightmare they weren’t willing to handle anymore.
Never mind the championship trophies I helped them win over the years.
I run a hand roughly over my face, irritation flaring. At thirty-nine, it was easy for them to rationalize the trade.
Not only would I make the team’s spin doctors earn their keep, but they think I’m washed-up—a veteran presence only useful for ticket sales.
