Page 67 of Game Misconduct
I bury my face in my hands.
This can’t keep happening.
Because if it does, Maddox Lasker won’t just ruin my season.
He’ll ruin me.
My phone buzzes against the coffee table, a low vibration that makes my pulse jump like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
I reach for it, half-expecting Dean with another sanctimonious “note” about today.
But it’s Griffin.
Groaning, I drop my head back against the couch and mock-bang it once against the cushion.
I swipe to answer and barely get out a “Hello” before his voice fills the line, amused and too damn knowing. “Caught the highlights of your first preseason game, cuz. That was…something.”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “It was a win.”
“Sure,” he drawls. “If you squint hard enough. Your golden goalie looked like he was skating in quicksand for the first period. Half the analysts are already debating if he’s past it.”
Heat sparks low in my chest. “He settled in. Pulled big saves in the third. That’s what matters.”
“Uh-huh.” He lets the pause stretch. “And then Hunt trying to chew him out in the locker room? Yeah, not a great look.”
I grip the counter tighter. “That’s growing pains. Locker rooms sort themselves out.”
“Unless they don’t.”
His tone isn’t cruel, but close enough to make me bristle.
“Lo, I’m not saying you made the wrong call on Lasker, but you can’t pretend there aren’t cracks showing.”
“I’m not pretending anything, Griffin.” My tone is sharp.
I pace toward the window, staring out at the trees black against the night. “It’s one game. Preseason. Do you really think I don’t know the difference between a stumble and a collapse?”
Griff sighs, softer now. “Just asking if you’re sure. Because you sound like you’re carrying this one man on your back.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. “I’m carrying the whole damn franchise on my back. Maddox is part of that. And for the record—he did fine at the hospital today.”
That makes him pause. “Hospital?”
“Children’s ward. PR lined up a charity visit. He read to the kids. Bonded with a little boy battling cancer. Even smiled.”
Griffin chuckles, disbelieving. “Maddox Lasker. Smiling in public. Now that’s a headline.”
I bite back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Point is—it worked. The press got their story, the board gets proof he’s not a mistake, and the kids…well, the kids loved him.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Griff says, low and careful, “You liked it too, didn’t you?”
The question slices too close. My throat tightens. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.” His tone softens, but the suspicion lingers. “I just know that sound in your voice. You’re not just defending your player. You’re defending something else.”
I force my voice flat. “I’m defending my team. Period.”
He hums like he doesn’t buy it, but mercifully stays quiet.
