Page 75 of Game Misconduct
Sloane doesn’t cut him off, but her eyes flick his way—one sharp glance, gone as fast as it comes. A warning without words.
She turns back to us, shoulders squared, voice smooth steel. “Tomorrow is the charity gala. That means every one of you shows up, suited up, polished, and on your best behavior.”
Her gaze drifts deliberately across the room, locking on Finn just long enough to make him shift in his seat. “You are the face of this franchise. When people look at you, they see Atlanta. And I expect you to represent this team at the level of every other elite sport in this city.”
The weight of her words hangs heavy, tighter than Holt’s drills, sharper than Dean’s clipped little notes.
The room doesn’t erupt this time. It settles, quieter but charged.
Dean shifts beside her, plastered smile back in place. The guys don’t look at him. They’re still watching her.
When she leaves, the sharp staccato of her heels echo down the hall, and the silence holds.
Until Finn breaks it.
“Christ,” he whistles low, dragging a towel across his chest. “Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks she’s hot as fuck.”
A couple guys chuckle, nervous, like they’re not sure if they’re supposed to agree.
My fists curl inside the tape still wound around them. Heat spikes, dark and instant, burning through the good mood of the win.
But I don’t move. Don’t say a word.
I can’t.
Because the second I do, the whole damn room will know I think she’s more than hot as fuck.
She’s a woman who sees things in me she shouldn’t, but I let her anyway.
Instead, I just sit there, shoulder throbbing.
The scoreboard says we won.
But the only thing I feel in my chest is the fire she leaves in her wake.
A fire I’d walk through to have more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sloane
The zipper slidesinto place with a whisper, green sequins catching the light like a thousand tiny daggers.
I smooth the fabric down my sides, palms pressing against my hips, as if I can force my pulse to steady by sheer will.
No such luck.
My reflection in the mirror stares back at me—steel spine and sharp jaw. And my dress?
Well, I picked it because it’s a weapon dressed as a gown—glitter sharp, neckline dangerous, slit unapologetic.
My hair’s twisted into a chignon so tight it feels like a crown, every dark blonde strand pinned exactly where I want it.
A Carrington never walks into a room half-finished. Not when the board will be there, not when Dean will be circling, not when the cameras are hungry for proof I don’t belong in this role.
I slide diamond studs into my ears, their weight familiar, grounding. Aunt Sara’s voice echoes in my head:
Never give them an inch. If you falter, they’ll eat you alive.
