Page 68 of Game Misconduct
For a moment, silence stretches—comfortable, complicated.Then I seize it before it frays. “Actually, I’m glad you called. The gala’s in two weeks. I need a plus-one.”
“Oh?” His tone is instantly suspicious. “And this has nothing to do with keeping the gossip rags from pairing you with one of your players?”
I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing for them to report. But you’re perfect. Family, clean-cut, I know you own a tux, and not a liability.”
He laughs. “High praise from a Carrington. Fine. I’ll dust off a suit and play arm candy. But only if you promise to let me escape early when the speeches start.”
“Deal.”
There’s a beat, then his voice shifts again, quiet but steady. “Just…don’t let this guy burn you, Sloane.”
Oh, great. He used my whole name for this one.
“No one is going to burn me, Griffin. I got this.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“I do. So, I’ll email you the details on the gala.”
“Sounds good. Love you, Lo.”
“Love you, Griff.”
We hang up, and the silence that follows leaves my pulse rattling in my ribs.
I start to toss the phone back on the coffee table when an email notification pops up across the top of the screen.
Dean’s name is waiting like a snake coiled in the grass.
Subject line:Children’s Hospital Recap – PR Outcome.
Of course. He couldn’t resist.
I click.
Attached are links to every major outlet that ran with the story—photos of Maddox crouched beside a boy in a knit cap, the rare smile that makes him look ten years younger.
Video clips of his gravel-rough voice reading, the boy’s laugh ringing like music.
The captions are exactly what I predicted:
Vipers’ Lasker Shows Heart Off the Ice.Carrington’s Gamble Humanized.From Bad Boy to Big Softie?
It’s gold. The kind of coverage we needed.
And then, Dean’s note at the bottom:Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Heat crawls up my throat as I stare at the infuriating words until they blur.
The asshole simply can’t give me an inch. Always with the smug, calculated jabs.
The implication that Maddox is still a mistake and that I’m the fool propping him up.
I want to throw my phone, or better yet, punch Dean in his pompous face.
I want to march into Dean’s office and remind him, in words sharp enough to leave scars, that I don’t answer to him.
Instead, I breathe deep, jaw locked, because anger is exactly what he wants.
