Page 3 of Game Misconduct
“Was I your backup plan? Or was this always the play?”
Involuntarily, I hold my breath as though waiting for his powerful, deep voice to answer me.
Ineedhim to answer me.
My heart clenches knowing this is one need that’ll never be met.
The glass reflects my face back at me—tired eyes, a tight jaw, lipstick that should be smudged but wouldn’t dare.
I look like I know what I’m doing. Like the woman who stands behind a podium and smiles while the media circled like sharks.
But inside…
Inside, it’s chaos.
“What would you do?” I ask him, softer this time. My voice cracks halfway through, but I let it break.
Would he see the way they look at me now? Would he hear the doubt, feel the weight? Would he have known how to handle a player like Maddox Lasker—ice in his veins, fire under his skin?
Of course, he would have.
But would he have trusted me to figure it out?
I breathe out hard, like I can expel the ache with air. My hand finally touches the glass. Cold. Smooth. Impenetrable.
Just like him.
“I’m not you,” I murmur. “But I’m all that’s left.”
God, I hope that’s enough.
The office is quiet except for the hum of tension vibrating behind my ribs.
Three taps is the only warning I get before the glass door opens.
“You looked like you were about to throw something,” my assistant, Tessa, says, stepping in with her usual quiet authority and a fresh cup of coffee. “I brought reinforcements.”
With one last glance at the jersey, I step away and let the armor fall back into place. “You’re a lifesaver; thanks. How bad is it out there?” I ask, crossing back to my desk.
“Depends…” She trades out one of the mugs with cold coffee with the fresh cup. “If you mean the media—circling. If you mean Dean—he’ll call momentarily.”
She grins. “If you mean me—I still believe in you, even when you look like a Bond villain about to detonate your desk.”
That earns her a weak smile.
As I sit down and sip the fresh coffee–sighing when it hits my tongue–she perches on the edge of my desk, perfectly at ease in a crisis. “Want to talk about it?”
I drum my fingers on my desk with my free hand. “Lasker’s still stalling. Peter gave me another non-answer. I told him to warn his client I’m coming to Boston and I’m not going to be nice.”
Her brows lift. “That’ll go over well.”
“I don’t care if it does. I’ve kissed every ring, massaged every ego, fought off every old-school owner who said I was too young or too green or too female. I refuse to let Maddox fucking Lasker be the reason they write my obituary.”
Tessa nods. “Then we go get him.”
Before I can reply, the desk phone buzzes and Dean’s name flashes on the screen.
Dean Ward. The GM of the Atlanta Vipers.
