Page 70 of Game Misconduct
His filthy words spilling hot against my lips:“Say you’re mine. Say you want every filthy inch.”
“Maddox, please,” I breathe, the words tearing out of me, broken and wanton.
The rhythm builds, spiraling me higher, every nerve lit like a fuse. My body begs for him, only him, even as I hate myself for wanting it this badly.
In my head, he’s fucking me against that elevator wall, hips driving me up the steel, my heels digging into his ass, growling,“Take it. Take every inch, sweetheart. You’re not running from me now.”
The coil snaps. I shatter hard, pleasure tearing through me, white-hot and raw.
My cry echoes off the walls, muffled only when I bite my lip, tasting copper. My hips jerk, chasing every aftershock until I collapse into the sheets, panting, vibrator slipping from my grasp.
The room smells of sex and sweat and salt. My skin is damp, trembling, clit still twitching with the ghost of him.
There’s no shame. Only the crushing ache of knowing I’ll never have what I just imagined.
The first man who makes me burn like this—the only one who makes mefeel—is the one man I can never touch.
I drag the sheets up over my nakedness, curling around the hollow ache in my chest. My throat tightens.
My body is spent, but the need hasn’t left. It never does, not with him.
Maddox Lasker will ruin me. And I don’t even care.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Maddox
The Hiss Roomcrackles like a storm waiting to break.
Not quiet, not reverent—alive.
Jerseys hang sharp and pressed, the Vipers logo glaring back at us from every surface. Gear clatters, sticks thump against the floor, the sharp scent of tape and sweat hanging heavy in the air.
Every guy’s got his own ritual—music blasting, laces yanked tight, heads bowed in silence—but it all blends into the same hum that rides my nerves.
The bass from the arena filters through concrete, the muffled roar of fans pressing down like a freight train.
Opening night.
I’ve been here before, but never like this. Not with a new team, a new city, a new weight riding my shoulders.
Riley’s the loudest. No surprise. He’s strutting in the middle of the room, spinning his stick like a baton. The rookies laugh too hard, desperate to fall in step.
Finn’s no better—shirt half off, tattoos gleaming, jawing about how he’s already planning his celebration when he scores.
Logan’s the opposite—hair slicked back, lacinghis skates in calm, efficient movements like he’s already a dozen games into the season.
He’s the kind of guy you’d trust to sell a sponsor in a boardroom or call a play in a war zone. Smooth, steady, untouchable.
Eli sits in the corner, head down, movements sharp. He doesn’t waste energy, doesn’t waste words, but there’s an edge to him. Controlled violence coiled in quiet. When he hits the ice, it’ll snap clean.
Beau is steady as hell, too—joking with Cal and showing him how to adjust his elbow pads so they don’t slip. Patient, guiding.
The man’s built like a wall but plays like a shield, always bracing, always protecting. Must be the single dad to a little girl thing.
Cal’s the outlier. The rookie looks like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He’s fumbling his tape, hands shaking, eyes wide like the arena will swallow him whole.
I watch him for a second too long, because I know that feeling. Twenty-four years old, raw as hell, and praying no one sees the cracks in you.
