Page 60 of Game Misconduct
My stomach twists.
Damn it, Lasker.
Jace, smooth as ever, leans in and picks up the crayon, sketching a stick figure goalie on the corner of the play diagram. The kids laugh, tension broken.
But Maddox…
He still looks like a man being marched to his execution.
The reporters sense it, smell it, and circle closer. Waiting for the stumble, the grimace, the proof that he doesn’t belong here.
My chest knots so tight it aches. I can’t tell if I should cringe or pray.
The crayon slips out of the boy’s fingers and rolls across the floor, rescued neatly by Jace’s calm hand. The kids laugh, tension easing, but Maddox still looks like a statue braced for a firing squad.
Before I can redirect, a nurse with kind eyes and quick instincts presses a book into Maddox’s massive hands. “Here, read this,” she says in a low, kind voice before stepping away.
The cover is bright with cartoon animals splashed across it. And I swear—he stares at it like it’s written in another language.
My stomach dips. Oh God. This is going to implode.
Then a small voice pipes up. “Mr. Lasker, will you read it? It’s my favorite.”
The sound comes from a boy in a knit cap too big for his head, pale skin waxy under the fluorescent lights.
He beams up at Maddox like the man just skated out of the TV and into his hospital room.
Hope, pure and unfiltered, shines in his eyes.
For a beat, Maddox doesn’t move. Then, with a rough exhale, he lowers into a crouch.
The movement is stiff, awkward, like he’s wearing his goalie pads instead of a suit.
He holds the book gingerly, as if the thin paper might split under his calloused fingers.
“Well, if it’s your favorite, I need to read it, don’t I?” His voice is rough but pitched low like a secret.
The boy nods so hard his cap slips sideways, and Maddox catches it with one big hand, tugging it back into place with surprising gentleness.
“What’s your name?”
The boy smiles shyly. “Connor.”
“It’s nice to meet you. You can call me Maddox.”
Then he opens the book.
The first lines stumble out of him, halting, like he’s testing how the words fit in his mouth.
The boy leans closer anyway, eyes locked on every syllable. Maddox clears his throat and keeps going, voice rough but steadying.
When he hits the villain’s dialogue, something unexpected happens. Maddox drops his voice lower, growling, giving the words weight.
The boy giggles, delighted, and Maddox’s brow flicks up in something like surprise before he rolls with it, doubling down on the act.
The kid laughs harder.
Another page, and Maddox softens his tone for the hero, slower, careful.
