Page 74 of Game Misconduct
My name rolls down from the stands—some cheers, some boos, all of it loud.
All of it mine.
And then my gaze finds her.
Up in the owner’s box, red dress standing out and cutting sharper than glass, hair pinned like armor, expression unreadable.
But I feel her eyes on me, heat through glass and distance and tens of thousands of screaming people.
Just looking at her is a gut punch.
Everything about the way I’m feeling is wrong.
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong woman.
And still, I skate off the ice with that pull branded in my veins, hotter than the win itself.
Luck continues to be on my side because somehow I manage to make it through the throng of reporters waiting in the tunnel without getting stopped for a soundbite.
The horn’s still echoing in my skull by the time I hit the locker room, sweat running hot under my pads, the air sharp with victory. Five–one.
A statement win.
The locker room hums, louder than practice ever is—sticks clattering against stalls and towels snapping.
Finn singing something off-key just to make Riley groan. It smells like adrenaline and triumph, the kind of night that reminds you why you bleed for this game.
I strip off my gloves, shoulder aching, but the buzz of the win cuts deeper than the pain.
“Not bad for an old man,” Riley calls across the room, towel slung over one shoulder, grin cutting bright. “Guess you’ve still got it…at least for now.”
The room chuckles. A backhanded compliment, wrapped in that Hunt arrogance.
I meet his eyes for half a beat, sharp enough to make him shift, then let it roll off.
Tonight, the scoreboard says enough.
The room stills when heels strike the tile. Sharp, deliberate.
Sloane steps inside, Dean shadowing her like he’s attached at the hip, but the room doesn’t look at him.
It never does.
All eyes track her, red dress fitted like armor, composure crisp even here in the humid heat of sweat and steam.
God, she’s fucking beautiful.
And I’m so fucked if that’s what I’m thinking when I should be thinking about what she thought of my performance on the ice.
“Good game,” she says, voice cutting through the haze. “A win like that sets the tone. You reminded this city tonight what hockey can be—fast, brutal, and unrelenting. Exactly what Atlanta deserves.”
She scans the room, slow enough that every man feels it. “Wins like this aren’t just numbers on a board. They’re how we build something lasting. Keep it sharp, keep it ruthless, and keep it ours.”
Energy ripples through the room, a tightening of spines, the hum of approval.
Dean claps once, politician-slick. “Strong start, gentlemen. Let’s make sure it’s not the peak.”
Flat. Hollow. His words clang against the tile.
