Page 58 of Game Misconduct
We pull up to the curb where balloons bob in the late-morning breeze, bright colors strung along the hospital entrance. Banners hang from the awning—VIPERS CARE DAY—and cameras already crowd the walkway.
Valet parkers greet us to whisk the cars away, and handlers wait in a neat little row along the sidewalk, clipboards ready.
The players and their assistants for the day are paired up, and I hang back to watch how each of them start the day.
Jace and Logan head in first, all calm confidence and PR smiles as the staff directs him toward the double doors.
Maddox follows, stalking toward his assistant like he’s walking into enemy territory. His shoulders roll under the black of his suit, jaw set hard enough to break teeth.
Every inch of him reads:don’t come near me.
The young woman who approaches him with an outstretched hand looks slightly scared but pushes through.
“Carrington.”
Dean’s voice slices from behind me, clipped and controlled.
I pivot and find him closing the distance with that smooth stride that makes my skin prickle. Tie knotted with lawyerly precision, smile polished within an inch of its life.
“Your guy doesn’t look any friendlier today than he did on media day,” he murmurs, eyes tracking Maddox like a hawk. “The man can barely string together a soundbite.”
I inhale through my nose, steadying the heat at the base of my spine. “He’s going to be fine.”
He has to be.
“Do you really think parading him into a children’s ward is the best play?”
I lift my chin and meet his gaze head-on. I’m getting tired of Dean always questioning my decisions.
“Yes, I do think it’s the best play. They’re sick children for God’s sake, not wild animals.”
Dean’s laugh is a low scoff, meant to sound reasonable. “Optics are fragile, Sloane. One wrong look, one wrong word—and the whole narrative burns. He’s not built for this kind of spotlight.”
Maddox is right. “Optics” is getting on my last nerve.
So is Dean with his patriarchal high handedness.
I step just close enough that the cameras won’t pick up myreply. My tone is quiet but sharp enough to cut. “Then he learns. And you remember who makes those calls. This is my team, Dean. Not yours.”
His eyes sharpen, assessing, like he’s weighing how far to push. “We’re supposed to protect the brand, not gamble it on a man who doesn’t know how to smile.”
My voice doesn’t rise, but the steel in it hums. “I’m not gambling. I know exactly what I’m doing. And so will the board, when they see the tape.”
A pause. His lips curve into that smooth politician’s smile, brittle at the edges. “Of course. Your team.”
I don’t move until he does. Don’t blink until he turns toward the cameras, charm plastered back in place.
Dean smiles, but I don’t trust him to protect anything but his own interests.
And when I finally follow the others inside, my pulse is still pounding in my throat, hot and fast.
The pediatric ward is painted like a storybook—trees curling up the walls, stars scattered across the ceiling—but the scent betrays it.
Disinfectant. Bleach. The too-clean tang that clings to the back of your throat.
Cameras hover at the edges like vultures waiting for scraps, handlers dividing players into groups before the kids are overwhelmed.
Sierra sweeps up Riley, Finn, Eli, and Cal into her orbit. The volume spikes instantly.
