Page 138 of Game Misconduct
Here it is. The pivot.
“We’d like to reiterate what was outlined in the ownership continuity clause.”
I nod once. “Of course.”
Dean picks it up like they rehearsed it. “The board expects a postseason berth this year—and next. No exceptions.”
I anchor my hand against the table and force my body to stay still.
“We’ve seen improvement,” another member adds quickly, trying to soften the blow. “But given the size of the expansion investment and the shift in ownership, we need back-to-back playoff appearances to justify long-term retention.”
Retention.
Like I’m a player. A gamble.
“Let me be clear,” Dean says, voice smoother now. “We all want you to succeed, Sloane. But this is still a business. And results matter.”
There it is.
Not a warning.
A line in the ice.
I incline my head. “Understood.”
The rest of the meeting rolls forward—updates from legal, some financial notes from the interim CFO, Tessa piping in with a few calendar reminders.
But I barely register any of it.
Because I can still feel Dean’s words clinging to my skin.
Lasker.
Optics.
Playoffs.
Gamble.
I sit straighter. Tighter. My posture textbook perfect. My face unreadable.
I give them nothing.
Not my nerves. Not my memories.
Not the press of Maddox’s mouth against mine in the darkened suite three nights ago.
I’m Sloane Carrington.
I own this team.
I built this empire from the ashes of a man who never wanted me to hold the torch.
And I will not burn for wanting something that was never in the rulebook to begin with.
I should be asleep.
Instead, I’m curled on the couch, bourbon in hand, hair unpinned, a knit throw blanket slouched around my bare legs. The only light in the room comes from the city outside—soft amber wash from the streetlights below, and the occasional blink of a plane overhead.
