Page 79 of Game Misconduct
His broad frame is a dark slash against the glittering crowd. He doesn’t clap. Doesn’t smile.
He just watches me, unblinking, the force of his gaze dragging heat down my spine like a touch no one else can see.
My mouth goes dry, but I don’t falter.
“This isn’t just about wins or losses. It’s about building a legacy together.” I pause, breath even. “And with all of you here tonight, I know we will.”
The applause roars back, bright and deafening. Cameras flash. Griffin nods faintly from the sidelines, quiet pride in his eyes.
But it’s not his gaze that sears me.
It’s Maddox. Still staring, still burning, like every word I said was meant for him alone.
I walk off the stage, and cameras descend the second I step down. Flash after flash, questions shouted over one another, handlers corralling bodies into neat little lines for the perfect shot.
Griffin slides to my side without needing to be asked, one hand at the small of my back as we pose. He knows how this works—angles, smiles, the practiced charm that makes the reporters eat out of his hand.
I smile for them too. Perfectly measured. Perfectly polished.
Maddox stands at the edge of the crowd, his height and broad frame cutting through the sea of tuxedos.
He doesn’t push forward for the spotlight, doesn’t offer anything to the cameras. He just watches.
Heat snakes up my spine every time my gaze catches on his. Every click of the camera feels like it’s capturing something I shouldn’t let bleed through.
“Closer,” one of the photographers calls, motioning Griffin tighter against me. He obliges, grin flashing easy as ever, his arm sliding just a fraction firmer at my waist.
And that’s when Maddox shifts—jaw locking, shoulders tight, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
It shouldn’t thrill me the way it does.
But it does.
The bulbs keep firing, questions flying, Griffin leaning in to whisper something light in my ear that makes me laugh.
But all I can think about is the man at the edge of the frame—the one who doesn’t belong to this part of my world, yet manages to own every breath I take anyway.
The camera bulbs finally dim, handlers ushering donors back toward the bar, the photos with Griffin still flashing across my eyes.
My cheeks ache from holding the same curated smile, my pulse raw from knowing exactly whose gaze burned into me the whole time.
When the floor opens and the band eases into something smooth, the first player at my elbow isn’t Maddox.
It’s Jace.
“Owner Carrington.” He offers his hand with the calm weight of a captain who knows exactly what he’s doing—making the first move before anyone else can. “May I?”
The corner of my mouth curves. He’s impossible to say no to. “Of course, Captain.”
The crowd parts as we step onto the floor. Jace doesn’t speak much—he never does—but his steady presence is enough to make the donors murmur approval.
His hand is firm, his lead unshakable, his small talk clipped but respectful.
Safe.
When the song ends, he thanks me and releases me with the same precision he brought to the ice earlier this week.
I barely have time to exhale before Finn sweeps in, chaos personified in a tux.
