Page 17 of Game Misconduct
Not a question. Not a request. Just a line I drew in frost.
And she crossed it just like we both knew she would. Because control looks good on her, but challenge looks better.
Power in motion. Precision in silk.
The sharp click of heels on concrete isn’t just an announcement. It’s a declaration.
There’s no hesitation in her stride. No apology for taking up space.
Sloane Carrington doesn’t knock because she doesn’t have to. She walks into rooms like they were built for her.
I don’t look directly at her, but Ifeelher. Like static before a storm. Like gravity shifting under my skates.
Skating a slow loop, controlling my breath, bleeding tension with each stride.
My body aches in a good way—worn out, emptied out—but my head? My head’s a goddamn war zone.
And it’s all because of the woman who I feel watching me from the other side of the glass.
I circle wide. Let her watch. Let her see I’m still here. Still skating. Stillme, even if the league tried to write a different story.
I coast to a stop at center ice, chest heaving. I don’t move. Just close my eyes for one long second, trying to slow the riot inside me.
I turn and raise my gaze just in time for her eyes to meet mine.
And grind my molars so that my jaw doesn’t drop to the floor.
I thought the only thing the woman owned were crisp blouses and those skirts that hug her covers in a way that’s really not safe for the workplace.
But not tonight.
Tonight she’s in a slim black leather jacket that stops at her waist and black jeans. The black heeled boots make those already long legs look endless.
Those lush lips are set in a perfect, unreadable line.
Even though she doesn’t look made for ice rinks—especially local, gritty rinks like this one—she doesn’t look out of place either.
She looks expensive and hot as fucking hell.
And completely and utterly out of my league.
Yeah, like you had any chance with her anyway, Lasker. She’s not a puck bunny or a Hollywood starlet, jackass.
I glide toward her, slow, controlled. I let the silence stretch. I want to see what she does with it.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Her eyes track me like I’m a threat and a challenge all at once.
I lean my forearms on the boards, sweat running down the side of my face. “You always show up to random places this late at night? Or am I just lucky?”
She raises one brow. “You’re not lucky. I want my signature.” She pauses, tilting her head. “And I think you’re smart enough to know this is your only shot.”
I huff out a laugh, bitterness hot in my veins. “Oh, you think so?”
She steps closer, unfazed. “You called me, Lasker. If you really had other options, we wouldn’t be standing here.”
“I called you because I’m not ready to hang up my skates and pretend I’m fine with fading out.”
“You could’ve just said that.”
