Page 77 of Game Misconduct
For one dizzying second, my body betrays me. I want to do nothing more than drink in the sight of him in that tux.
If I could just look at him, maybe I could make sense of the knot twisting in my stomach.
In the next instant, Maddox’s gaze cuts over us, ice-blue and burning at the same time. It lands on Griffin’s hand over mine and lingers just long enough that my throat goes tight.
His jaw clenches once, hard, like he’s already decided what this looks like.
And he doesn’t like it.
My lips part, instinct to explain rising like heat under my skin. Except he doesn’t give me the chance.
He turns on his heel, shoulders squared, and strides straight into the ballroom with cameras snapping in his wake.
The photographers roar louder, chasing him, and just like that he’s gone, leaving nothing but the hollow in my chest where his stare still burns.
Griffin watches him disappear inside, then glances down at me, his voice pitched for my ears alone. “He doesn’t like me.”
My breath hitches. “What do you mean? On the ice?”
“No, here. Right now.”
“He doesn’t even know you.”
Griffin’s mouth curves, knowing, dark hair catching the light. “Doesn’t have to.”
I laugh, but it scrapes my throat raw.
Something tells me this is going to be a long night.
Once inside, the ballroom hums like a hive, chandeliers dripping light across sequins and black ties, champagne bubbling in tall flutes.
I sit at a round table near the front, Griffin at my right, Dean at my left. Across from me, two board members and their wives chatter over the centerpiece—a spray of white orchids tall enough to feel like another barrier.
It doesn’t take long for the conversation to shift.
“Griffin,” one of the wives leans forward, eyes sparkling, “the media’s saying you’re in prime position this year. What do you think?”
Griffin smiles, polite, shoulders relaxed in his suit. He answers smoothly, the whole table leaning in.
And I’m invisible.
Every nod, every follow-up question aimed at him. Not the woman sitting here who owns the team hosting this gala, who signs their checks, who keeps the lights on in this room.
I sip champagne, slow, letting the bubbles coat the bite in my throat.
Griffin, to his credit, tries. “You should really ask Sloane about how things are shaping up here. She’s the one running the show.”
Dean clears his throat, smiling tightly. “Oh, she’s modest. Griffin, how’s your new captain handling the locker room?”
The pivot is sharp enough to cut. My hand curls in my lap.
I want to remind them whose logo is splashed across the stage backdrop.
I want to demand they look at me.
But I don’t.
Carringtons don’t demand. We remind.
