Page 30 of Game Misconduct
Imperceptibly, he tips his chin. A move no one else seems to notice but me.
It’s becoming clear to me—much to my utter shame—I notice everything when it comes Maddox Lasker.
The curl of black tape at the end of his stick handle.
The shape of his mouth, unsmiling under the cage.
The way he holds still as if stillness is a weapon he learned how to sharpen.
I’m here to evaluate an asset. All of my assets. That is the official story.
Unofficially, I can’t stop looking at only one of them. The one wearing number thirty-three.
Spoiler alert: that’s not a good thing.
Maddox drops into his stance.
He’s not the fastest to move. He doesn’t need to be. He holds the crease like it belongs to him, weight balanced, glove relaxed, stick flat against the ice. Every shuffle is efficient.
Three sharp pushes and he’s square to the first shot, pads sealing the ice. The puck smacks into him and dies at his feet. He angles it away with a clean flick to the corner, already resetting for the next play.
The next time it’s a glove save, snatched so fast the shooter barely finishes his follow-through.
Then, a blocker deflection—puck steered harmlessly into the glass. He absorbs the slapshot to the chest like it’s nothing, the sound of impact echoing like a gunshot, and he doesn’t so much as flinch.
Why do I find that so fucking hot?
I blow out a breath to make myself remember to breathe.
Riley Hunt cruises through the crease, trying to screen him.
Maddox doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a look. He holds his ground, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the puck.
A player zips in from the blue line, tips off Riley’s stick at the last second, but Maddox snaps his pad down and swallows it whole.
He rises without hurry, drops the puck for his defense, and Riley might as well be invisible.
Controlled. Professional. Precise like a surgeon.
I should be taking the notes I need to defend my decision of signing Maddox so they don’t take the team away from me.
Especially given that he’s a veteran nearing the end of his career.
He looks good in conditioning. Reads plays early and stabilizes presence in chaos.
Instead, the heat sparking low in my belly is coiled tight, feeling anything but professional.
I grip the railing and let the cold steel bite into my palm in order to ground me. Inhaling deeply, I drag my focus back to the job I’m supposed to be doing.
Holt rotates them into rush drills. Two-on-ones. Three-on-twos.
Maddox reads each play like a map he’s already memorized. He challenges high, cuts angles early, drops into the butterfly when the shot comes and explodes back to his feet before the rebound can become a threat.
The puck clangs off his blocker, sails high off his shoulder, and sticks to his glove like a magnet.
He controls the play with an ease that makes my throat go dry.
The board wants numbers on Maddox. And not ones like what the rate of my pulse must be watching him play in the flesh.
