Page 59 of Game Misconduct
Riley tilts his head toward a cameraman, grin sharp and bright, like he’s auditioning for a toothpaste ad. A little girl giggles when he winks at her, and the reporter beside her beams like they just captured gold.
Finn drapes himself across the back of a chair, plucks the stethoscope hanging around a pretty nurse’s neck, and presses it to his chest. “Am I dying?” he asks, eyes wide.
The nurse blushes with a laugh, then swats at him; the cameras flash. The man is complete chaos, contained only because he wants it that way.
Eli crouches by a boy in a wheelchair, his big frame folding down small. His voice carries just enough for me to catch the gentleness in it, nothing like the sharp edges he wears on the ice.
The boy’s shoulders straighten under his quiet attention, and I see Sierra’s relief in the way she exhales.
Cal hovers close, fumbling a bit as he pulls hats from his bag. His hands shake, but when he presses one into a little girl’s lap, he does it like he’s handing her a crown.
Her whole face lights up, and she giggles. Cal flushes scarlet, ducking his head as the cameras snap the moment.
The press eats it up.
Of course they do.
I stay with Maddox, Logan, and Jace. Safer.
Or maybe riskier, depending on how you measure it.
Jace is the picture of composure, squatting in the middle of a cluster of kids, stick in hand as he sketches a play across the linoleum floor.
His voice is low, steady, a coach in miniature, and the kids lean in as though he’s teaching them secrets instead of hockey. Calm radiates off him like heat.
Beside him, Logan slides easily into the circle, suit jacket tugged open, tie gone. He lets one of the kids balance his phone on a tiny knee, showing off a highlight reel like it’s contraband.
His tone is smooth, practiced—PR polished without losing warmth—and the laughter he earns is effortless.
He’s the bridge, steady but approachable, a player who knows exactly how to give just enough of himself to make people feel like they matter.
And Maddox…
Maddox stands like a man on trial. Shoulders locked, jaw cut from stone. His hands hang useless at his sides, twitching once like he wants to shove them in his pockets and thinks better of it.
His eyes keep flicking to the cameras instead of the kids, tracking them the way he’d track a puck.
The contrast is brutal—Jace the calm anchor, Logan the polished face, Maddox the wall of ice and silence.
Dean would see liability.
The board would see a mistake.
But me?
I can’t stop seeing the weight under his stillness. The storm wound tight in the cage of his body, begging for a crack.
And God help me, I want to see what happens when it does.
One brave little boy tugs on Maddox’s sleeve, holding up a bright crayon. “Can you draw something?” he asks, hopeful.
The cameras pivot, hungry.
Maddox blinks down at him, huge and awkward, hand flexing once. For a heartbeat, I think he’ll kneel. I think he’ll take the damn crayon.
Instead, he clears his throat and gives the boy a stiff nod—more like acknowledging a teammate on the bench than responding to a child.
The boy’s smile falters.
