Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Maddox
The whistle blows, and the scrimmage snaps to life.
I lock my knees and square my frame, tracking the first rush coming down the ice.
Riley cuts in fast, slick hands moving like he’s performing for a highlight reel instead of a practice. Showboating, peacock that he is.
He drags the puck across the slot, fakes one way, and goes the other. I stretch, glove snapping out in time to shut him down.
“Fuck!”
He’s loud enough for the bench to hear, and Finn laughs so hard he nearly drops his stick.
As usual, Finn’s busting balls as much as playing. He doesn’t shut up the whole practice—giving me shit about my age, about Riley’s missed chance, about anything that’ll get under someone’s skin.
If you’re in his orbit, you’re a target.
Logan runs the next play clean and efficient, settling the chaos with one perfectly placed pass that lands tape-to-tape.
The guy doesn’t waste movement, doesn’t waste words either. He’s already running mid-season form while the rest of them are still shaking off summer rust.
Eli grinds it out along the boards, a hard check here, a stripped puck there. Nothing flashy, but there’s an edge to him—controlled violence in every shift.
Beau slides into a defensive read, body angled not just to cut off Riley but to keep Cal from getting flattened in the process. Always the caretaker, even when he’s breaking plays apart.
Jace watches it all calmly. He’s a helluva captain. The man doesn’t need to yell to be heard.
His presence does it for him. We all read off him without realizing it.
Cal’s the only one still tripping over his own eagerness. Kid nearly face plants chasing down a loose puck, but he scrambles up quick, skating harder like he can make up for it with hustle.
I watch him and can’t help but see myself twenty years ago—raw, reckless, and desperate to prove I belonged.
The play turns and Finn fires one from the top of the circle, and I drop down, block it, then send the rebound flying.
Fuck me.
Pain knifes through my shoulder with the motion. Sharp, sudden, blinding.
I mask it and push up like nothing happened.
Nobody notices, and that’s the whole point.
I can play through it.
I will play through it.
Because the second I show weakness, it’s over.
We cycle through several more scrimmages before the whistle’s called, indicating the end of practice.
“Hit the showers. Team meeting in ten,” Coach Holt calls out.
We shuffle into the locker room, which soon stinks of sweat and adrenaline, steam rising off the showers as guys strip out of their gear.
Letting the rest of the guys get to the showers first, I strip down to my compression gear and sit on the bench, moving gingerly to hide the pain in my shoulder.
I need ice, but there’s no way I’m doing it in front of the whole team or even a PT if I can get away with it.
True to his word, Coach Holt walks into the locker room, calling us into a quick huddle, voice carrying over the chatter.
He goes over some specific areas of improvement, thankful “goal tending” was left off the list.
“Energy was sharp today,” he says, gaze sweeping the room. “Conditioning’s still got room to improve before the regular season starts. Don’t get sloppy—preseason isn’t a tune-up; it’s an audition. You want your spot, then earn it now.”
Heads nod. Nobody jokes back.
We all know he’s right.
His eyes land on me a beat longer than the others. I keep my face neutral. Whatever he’s looking for, he won’t see it with me.
After the group breaks, Holt jerks his chin at me. “Coach Hartwell wants a word in the film room.”
I nod and head down the hall to see what the goalie coach has to say about my performance.
Coach doesn’t waste time. Clips flash across the screen, my saves, my misses, angles I know by heart.
He points out a drop in my stance, a half-second delay on a slide. “Stay sharp,” he says, like it’s that simple.
Like it doesn’t burn every time I push that shoulder the wrong way.
I nod. No excuses. No explanations.
But every note he gives me lands heavier than it should, like a reminder the younger guys are right there, faster, fresher, and waiting to take my spot.
And if I slip? They’ll hand it over without blinking.
When I return to the locker room, it hums with that low, fluorescent buzz, too bright, too empty. Everyone else cleared out a while ago, and that’s exactly how I like it.
No eyes on me. No one watching the old man ice his busted shoulder.
I tug my compression sleeve down, teeth clenched against the stab of movement. The joint feels like ground glass, grinding every time I shift.
I grab an ice pack from the cooler, slap it against my shoulder, and fumble with the plastic wrap to hold it in place. One-handed, it’s sloppy—slips halfway down my bicep before I even get it tight.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, jerking the wrap, pain spiking sharper.
That’s when I hear it—the click of high heels.
Sharp, deliberate, wrong in this space that smells like sweat, rubber, and disinfectant.
I don’t even look up. “Locker room’s closed. Holt’s gone.”
Silence. Then, that voice. The one that makes my blood run hot, even when it’s low and cutting and scolding me. “You’re wrapping that wrong.”
My head snaps up to find Sloane standing just inside the doorway, arms folded, eyes locked on me like she owns the damn place.
Which—technically—she does.
“Not your business,” I bite back. Ice shifts, water seeping cold down my chest.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
She doesn’t leave. Of course she doesn’t.
Instead, she crosses the room, every step echoing in my ribs, until she’s standing right in front of me. “Give me that.”
I should tell her to go to hell. I should grab the roll of wrap out of her reach and prove I don’t need anyone’s help.
But my fingers let go before my pride can catch up, and suddenly she’s bracing the pack against my shoulder, moving with quick, sure hands.
Her scent hits first—something clean, sharp, and threaded with expensive perfume that doesn’t belong in a men’s locker room, no matter how state of the art it is.
Then the heat of her palms against my skin through the thin layer of compression fabric.
The brush of her wrist against my chest.
My body goes rigid, breath stalling as she winds the tape smooth and tight, no wasted motion.
I can’t stop watching her. The way her brow furrows, the way she doesn’t hesitate.
Like she’s done this before. Like she knows exactly where it hurts.
Finally I rasp, “How the hell do you know how to do that?”
She ties it off with a neat snap, steps back just enough that the warmth of her touch fades, and meets my eyes.
Calm. Steady. “I used to be an Olympic-contending figure skater. Injuries were part of the deal.”
The words hang between us, heavier than the ice on my shoulder.
I study her—really study her. The steel under the polish, the edge under the silk.
It shouldn’t surprise me, but it does.
And it makes something tighten in my chest that has nothing to do with pain.
She turns before I can say anything, heels clicking on the tile as she walks away like she didn’t just strip me bare in the most dangerous way possible.
“Actually…” she says, coming back over to where I sit. “You’re the one I was looking for. We need to talk. Come to my office before you leave.”
There’s an edge in her tone making it clear this isn’t optional.
My pulse spikes for an entirely different reason. The ice burns cold, but it’s nothing compared to the heat curling low in my gut.
But I can’t let her see what she does to me, even if she wasn’t the woman who signs my paychecks.
I narrow my eyes on her. “And if I don’t?”
Her lips curve in a feline smile that has nothing to do with humor, but doesn’t respond before turning on that spiked heel and walking away.
Her heels echo down the hall, sharp and steady, leaving me with nothing but melting ice and the echo of her touch burning through my skin.
I sit there longer than I should, jaw locked, trying to smother the fire she lit with her hands on me and the command in her voice.
She doesn’t get to do this—walk in, strip me bare without touching skin, then order me upstairs like I’m one of her rookies.
But the truth? My body’s already decided.
I strip the wrap off, shoving the ice into the trash, and sling my bag over my shoulder like I’ve still got a choice.
Heading for the elevator, the burn in my shoulder feels like nothing compared to the one low in my gut.
When I get to the top floor and exit the elevator, every step to her office feels like giving in, but I don’t stop.
I can’t.
Not when part of me wants to see what she does next almost as much as I want to tell her no.
The hallway stretches out in front of me, sleek and silent, a world away from the sweat and chaos downstairs.
My boots sound too loud against the polished floor, every step dragging me deeper into her territory.
By the time her assistant comes into view, I already know I’ve crossed a line I swore I wouldn’t.
Tessa looks up from behind her desk as I step in, every inch of her composed, not a detail out of place.
“She’s expecting you.” Smooth, neutral. No judgment. But I catch the faintest twitch at her mouth, like she knows more than she lets on.
My jaw tightens. My hand fists around the strap of my bag. I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be giving in to her pull.
But I walk forward anyway.
The office door looms, wood and glass polished to a shine. One step, and I’m in. One step, and I’m back where I swore I wouldn’t be.
My hand hesitates on the handle, breath catching against my will.
I turn it. Push through.
And there she is—Sloane Carrington, seated behind her desk, calm as a storm’s eye, looking like she owns the whole damn world.
The door clicks shut behind me.
Just the two of us.
Again.