Page 106 of Game Misconduct

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Her voice floats back to me—soft and quiet like dawn.

It happened. And I don’t regret it.

I shouldn’t have stayed the weekend. Should’ve left the second the sun rose.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

And now I don’t want to pretend.

I step out of the shower and grab a towel, rough with bleach and team logos. The locker room’s half-empty now. Most of the guys already gone or sprawled on benches, scrolling their phones xor bullshitting like it's just another Monday.

For them, maybe it is.

I tug my hoodie over my head, sit on the bench, and check my phone.

No message.

Not surprised. Not mad. But something in my chest pulls tight anyway.

I flip the phone face-down and scrub a hand over my jaw.

We said we’d keep it quiet.

Said we’d reassess when the season ends.

But the way I feel right now?

The way I felt when she looked at me like I was worth choosing?

That’s not something I want to hide.

And that thought—more than anything—scares the ever-living shit out of me.

Because I don’tdovisible. I don’t ask to be seen.

But damn if I don’t want to be seen by her.

Fuck.

This is why I’ve avoided catching feelings like the plague. It makes me want things I have no business wanting.

And from people who deserve better than me.

I grab my bag and head out, ready to be home in the solitude of my condo.

Or am I?

The fact that she’s in the same building as me right now ignites the need to see her like an obsession.

Instead, I head to the rink. Maybe the sharp, cold air will ground me like it usually does.

Ground me and tell me to go the fuck home.

Do not pass go.

Or Sloane’s office.

But when I get to the ice, it isn’t empty.

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