Page 123 of Game Misconduct
“I’m a goalie,” I shoot back. “We’re built for humiliation.”
She laughs, and it’s the kind that gets under my skin—light, unguarded, and real. I haven’t heard her laugh like that outside a closed room.
Not around anyone but me.
She steps up to the side door and punches in a code on the keypad. The lock clicks.
The place is technically closed. But she’s the owner, so “technically” doesn’t apply to her.
She’s the boss. This is her ice, her world.
Her name on every piece of paper I signed.
But here she is, holding the door open like this is just for us.
I follow her inside, the sharp scent of chilled air and rubber hitting me all at once. The rink is dark, echoing, and empty.
But it doesn’t feel lonely.
It feels like something’s about to happen.
“I’ve got skates in my office. Want to meet in the locker rooms or center ice?”
“Wherever you plan to undress me, princess.”
She rolls her eyes with a smile. “Behave, Prince Charming. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be at center ice when you get back.”
I head for the locker room to get my skates, taking my time to lace up.
But I get lost in my head thinking about us because by the time I come back out, she’s at center ice.
The lights are low, just the main track lighting over the ice on. No music, no noise, just the quiet hum of the refrigeration system.
And there she is, spinning slow, arms tucked close, her movement so effortless it takes my brain a second to catch up and realize she changed into leggings and a fitted hoodie.
I didn’t think Sloane Carrington even owned clothes like that.
But it’s not her clothes that have me staring. It’s her movements.
It isn’t just skill. It’s muscle memory, grace, and precision. The kind of thing that doesn’t come from casual practice.
It’s in her bones.
She sees me, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks like someone else.
Not the owner, not the boss. Just a woman doing something she once loved.
And fuck if that doesn’t level me more than anything she said tonight.
If I’m going to lose this bet, I’ll at least make her work for it.
And if I’m lucky?
She’ll let me stay long enough to watch her fly.
She glides my way, cheeks flushed, hair pulled back in a low braid, and something about the way she looks—comfortable, grounded, and light on her feet—makes my throat tighten.
