Page 72 of Game Misconduct
Once each player on the Outlaws is introduced, The Pit goes dark once again and the tension is palpable.
The announcer’s voice booms, rich and sharp, threading through the chaos.
“Atlanta… are you ready to feel the bite?”
A thunderous hiss rolls through the arena, thousands of voices joining the sound effect that pours from the speakers.
My skin prickles under my gear—it’s eerie and electric, like standing inside the throat of a beast.
“Welcome your Vipers to The Pit!”
The crowd detonates. Spotlights sweep across the bench as names rip through the speakers one by one.
Riley Hunt struts out first, hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to blind. The place roars for him, the human highlight reel, and he eats it up—arms wide, tapping his chest like he’s king of Atlanta already.
Finn’s next. He makes a show of it, skating half a lap before even finding his spot, tossing pucks into the glass for the kids in the front row, blowing kisses to the cameras. The ovation swells, chaotic, perfect for him.
Logan slides out clean, efficient, nothing wasted even in a damn introduction. Eli follows, the crowd quieter for him, but he doesn’t need noise.
Beau gets a wave of cheers, solid and steady, the kind of player who looks like he’s been here forever. Jace, last before me, gets the captain’s welcome—loud and reverent.
And then it’s my turn.
“Number thirty-three. Goaltender. Maddox Lasker.”
The sound that hits me isn’t clean. It’s jagged. Cheers crash into boos, the mix sharp enough to cut skin.
Boston baggage doesn’t burn off easy, not even a thousand miles away.
My jaw locks. I don’t flinch. I let it soak in, all of it—the love, the hate, and the noise.
If they want a villain, I’ll wear the mask.
The ice reflects fire as I skate out, each push steady, shoulders squared. My body’s already humming, the burn in my shoulder a steady throb under the pads.
Doesn’t matter. The crease is waiting. That’s mine.
But before I reach it, I make the mistake of glancing up.
The owner’s box. High above the ice, lights catching on glass. And there she is.
In a red dress that would make me weak in the knees if I let it.
I’d bet my next paycheck she’s wearing fuck me heels as well.
There’s not a flicker of emotion on her face. To the crowd, she’s untouchable.
But I know better. I’ve felt the heat under that control, the way her body answers even when her voice stays cold.
The sight of her spears a bolt of lust straight through me. Cuts past the noise, past the fire, past every bruise the crowd just hurled.
Heat floods low, wicked and reckless.
Under the lights, in front of everyone, I shouldn’t feel this.
But my chest tightens, my gut coils, and all I can think about is her.
And then I don’t have time to think of her anymore.
