Page 33 of Game Misconduct
A glance over at him and lift my chin. “I’m a Carrington, Dean. I was born ready.”
He purses his lips as I step up to the podium where my notes are stacked.
The weight of eyes on me is stifling, but I straighten my spine and let the mask drop.
“Good afternoon,” I say, and the room hushes.
Bring it on, vultures.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maddox
The locker roomstinks of sweat and wet fabric—normal after practice, but heavier today, like the air knows we’re about to be paraded around.
The kind of smell that clings, no matter how much body wash the team leaves in the stalls.
Guys peel off gear fast, the scrape of Velcro, the slap of pads hitting the floor. Steam’s already curling from the showers at the back.
Nobody wants to look like they just crawled out of a drill line when the cameras start flashing.
I tug my mask free, drop it hard on the bench, and strip down slow. My shoulders ache from the morning skate, the kind of burn I welcome.
Out there I’m in control. In here?
It’s a fucking circus.
Riley’s voice cuts through the noise, loud enough to carry over the hiss of showers and the clang of lockers.
He’s already half-wrapped in a towel, talking big like he’s the captain instead of just a kid with a dangerous smile.
Finn eggs him on, pulling rookie Cal into their orbit like it’s some goddamn comedy act.
Laughter echoes off the tile. Cameras aren’t even in the room yet, and Riley’s performing.
I shower fast, just hot enough to loosen my neck. No lingering. No small talk.
By the time I step out, the handlers are setting up lights and banners in the hallway. Jerseys are laid out clean, crisp, like we’re mannequins instead of men.
Riley’s first to throw his on, hair still damp but styled with his hands like he’s about to do a cologne ad. Finn follows, tugging his jersey over his head and winking at one of the assistants, earning a giggle.
I pull mine on slow, every movement deliberate, the weight of the Vipers logo sitting heavy on my chest.
It’s supposed to mean something. For me, it’s a reminder of how fast a logo can turn into a target.
The photo station is just outside, all blinding lights and cameras clicking nonstop. Riley struts into the spotlight like he owns it, flashing that smirk he probably practices in the mirror.
When its Finn’s turn, he hams it up—stick raised like a sword, a flex that makes the handlers laugh.
When they wave me forward, my jaw’s already tight. They want intensity. They want something they can plaster on a billboard.
I give them flat eyes. Nothing else.
“Little more energy, Mr. Lasker,” the photographer quips.
I bare my teeth—but not in a smile. More like a wolf giving a warning before he bites. The flash goes off, and for a second I see them flinch.
That’s all they get.
