Page 61 of Game Misconduct
The boy’s hand creeps out, resting on Maddox’s, tracing the knuckles of the larger hand like it’s treasure.
Maddox doesn’t pull away.
He flexes his fingers once under the small hand, as though giving a piece of himself costs nothing at all.
And then—God help me—the man smiles.
Not the bitter curl I’ve seen when he cuts down a reporter.
Not the sharp, practiced smirk that says he knows exactly how to piss someone off.
A real smile. Raw, genuine, unguarded. It transforms his whole face, breaking something open inside my chest.
Heat surges through my body, hot and fierce, so sharp I grip my notebook tighter to keep from trembling.
The owner in me catalogs it instantly: perfect PR, the kind of clip the board will salivate over, the kind of moment that sells tickets and cements legacies.
Gold.
But the woman in me…well, she aches.
Because I can’t stop watching the way his shoulders easewhen the boy laughs. The way that smile—unpracticed and so damn rare—changes everything about him.
It’s dangerous how much I feel just by seeing him smile.
This—this is what I knew was there. What Dean swore didn’t exist.
Cameras flash like lightning, catching it all, but for once it doesn’t feel staged. Doesn’t feel like PR.
It feels real.
And it undoes me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Maddox
Connor’s hand is small,light as paper, resting against mine.
He’s still grinning from the story, pale cheeks flushed like he’s already halfway to the rink I just promised him existed.
Eight years old, hooked up to tubes and monitors, and he’s got more fight in him than most rookies I’ve ever seen.
“Do you really play goalie?” he asks, eyes wide. “Like, stop the pucks and everything?”
“Every night,” I say, voice low, a little rougher than I mean it to be.
His laugh is soft but real, chest shaking under his hospital gown. Then he flips open a sketchbook from his tray table, pencil lines crisscrossing the page.
Superheroes, all blocky shoulders and capes, battling across city skylines.
“Did you draw these?” I ask, leaning closer before I think better of it.
He nods, a little shy this time. “I’m making my own comic. I wanna be like Stan Lee. Or—” His eyes flicker up. “Or maybe make a hockey one. You could be in it.”
Something shifts in my chest, hard and sharp.
I haven’t told anyone about the stacks of comics shoved in boxes in my storage unit, the sketchbook I used to carry on buses between games in high school and college.
