Page 8 of Game Misconduct
I’m wired and numb at the same time—like my body can’t pick a lane.
Atlanta's just another city. Another stadium. Another jersey. But it doesn't feel that way.
It feels like exile.
A sharp knock jolts me from the simmering anger. I glance at the clock, hunger gnawing low in my gut. Expecting food delivery, I ignore it.
My face is known in this city. It only took once to make themistake of opening the door to a delivery guy who ended up being a rabid fan.
He tried to get into my condo, and my food was stone cold by the time he left.
Lesson learned.
But another knock comes, more insistent this time.
Why the fuck is the Dasher knocking? Don’t they read the instructions?
Then a voice cuts through—female, firm, undeniably familiar.
“Maddox. Open up.”
Fuck my life. Did she actually fly her fancy ass up to Boston?
I press fingers to my temples, irritation spiraling. This is so much worse than a rabid hockey fan wanting to talk about all my stats and tell me his life story.
This is a hockey owner who doesn’t like the fact I’m not asking how high when she says jump.
Sloane fucking Carrington.
I will say this for the woman. Her kind of persistence could make stone walls crumble.
Which, admittedly, makes licks of anxiety churn in my gut.
Three more sharp knocks, rapid, relentless. Each strike reverberates in my chest, agitation coiling tighter. Her voice slices through again, harder and edged with steel.
“Open the door, Lasker. Or I’ll keep knocking.”
“Go away,” I grumble softly. She can’t hear me, but even if she could, she wouldn't listen.
As promised, she continues to knock, not letting up. If I weren’t so pissed off, I’d admire the set of brass balls on her. She’s bold enough to invade my territory and doesn’t sound the least bit sorry for it.
With an exhausted groan, I stalk to the door, each step punctuated by resentment.
I yank the door open, shirtless, using bare skin as armor, an attempt to unsettle her.
But the instant she fills my vision, framed by muted hallway lights, every nerve ending fires.
And I’m the one who’s unsettled.
Sloane Carrington in the flesh puts Sloane Carrington on the screen to shame.
Dark blonde hair tumbles around her shoulders in waves, and her eyes flash sharp green fire. In her skirt and tailored coat, she looks like she was engineered to make men underestimate her before she cuts their legs out from under them.
And those fuck me heels make her legs go on for days.
I should not be noticing any of that.
And yet, here I am with a chubbie.
