Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sloane
The elevator hums as it glides down from the top floor, my phone glowing in my palm.
Emails stack faster than I can swipe them away—Dean with his clipped reminders, Sierra with color-coded itineraries, and Tessa juggling interview requests.
My thumb hovers over the reply button when the car slows to a stop too soon to be the garage.
The doors slide open, and I make the grave error of glancing up.
Maddox.
And he looks like sex on a stick.
His broad shoulders perfectly fill out the dark suit with its sharp lines. He’s decided against a tie—typical Maddox—leaving his stark white button down shirt open at the collar.
My pulse jumps so hard I nearly fumble my phone.
Crystal blue eyes meet mine, and it’s like I’ve had the air knocked out of me when I see a spark of heat in his gaze.
I straighten, my back against the wall, letting my professional armor drop into place.
At least on the outside.
On the inside, I’m more like a cat in heat.
Without a word, he steps in, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at me right away, just presses the garage button with a deliberate hand.
Then his gaze cuts sideways, slow and deliberate, and heat crawls up my neck.
We stand in silence as the doors seal us in together. Seven floors of polished steel and suffocating tension.
His reflection in the brushed metal catches my eye before I can stop myself. The jacket strains across his chest when he shifts his stance. His cufflinks catch the low light.
He smells faintly of clean soap and something darker, sharper—aftershave maybe. It’s infuriating that I notice any of it.
I force my attention back to my phone, like the tiny glowing screen holds the keys to the universe. As though the man standing close enough that the air seems to tilt doesn’t bother me at all.
It’s a damn good thing pants don’t literally catch on fire when you lie.
Unable to focus, I drop the phone into my handbag and clear my throat.
If he isn’t going to acknowledge the coincidence we live in the same place, I guess I’ll do it.
But before I can say anything, he speaks in a low, gravelly voice.
“Didn’t know you lived here.”
“Penthouse.”
As if that explains everything.
His mouth twists in mix of a smile and grimace. “Figures.”
The car hums lower, floors ticking past. My chest tightens with every number. I hate the way my body betrays me—too aware of the heat radiating off him, too aware of how the tailored suit makes him look like he belongs at a board meeting instead of a crease.
The silence stretches, and his cologne is making me crazy. I just want to find the source of it and inhale it.
The elevator dings, doors parting onto the garage. The tension follows us out, our footsteps echoing sharp against the concrete.
I should let him walk out to his car, drive alone, keep the distance we both pretend we want. Instead, I hear myself say, “We’re going to the same place. Ride with me.”
His eyes narrow, like he’s debating whether to refuse just to spite me. Then his mouth twists. “Fine. But I call shotgun.”
I arch a brow, unlocking the car with a tap. “You’re lucky I don’t make you sit in the back.”
The corner of his mouth twitches like he almost smiles, but it’s gone before I can breathe it in.
My keys feel too small in my hand. And when he slides into the passenger seat, the cabin of my SUV is too confined for how close this already feels.
The first few blocks are silent. And while my hands are steady on the wheel, my pulse is anything but.
Finally, he mutters, “This PR stunt—kids and cameras—it’s a waste of time.”
I don’t look at him. “We’ve talked about this, Maddox. Optics matter. Especially yours.”
“Optics,” he repeats, like it tastes bad. “I hate that fucking word.” He looks out the side window. “I just want to do my job. And that’s playing hockey.”
“You’re more than your stats,” I fire back, heat slipping in. “Sponsors, the board—they want a man they can sell. And the fans want someone they can believe in. They all want more than just a wall in the net.”
He slants me a look, jaw flexing. “Newsflash, Carrington. Walls don’t smile for cameras.”
I grip the wheel harder. “Then try being human instead.”
His laugh is low, rough, and it slides under my skin like sandpaper. “Not sure that’s in the job description either.”
He glances at the console, the playlist still queued from last night.
Pearl Jam - Alive
He smirks. “Didn’t peg you for nineties alternative.”
Heat flashes across my cheeks before I can stop it. “I like what I like.”
“I pictured classical, something like Mozart or Chopin. Something stiff enough to match the suits.”
“Wouldn’t do much good to be lulled to sleep when I’m driving. Besides, I like music that cuts and makes me feel something.”
“Didn’t think you knew that.”
I glance over. “I’m surprised you do.”
His eyes linger on me a beat too long, something unreadable flickering in them. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
I swallow, throat tight. “Same goes.”
Danger hums in the car, louder than the bass line. We shouldn’t be here—talking about music, letting the edges soften.
This isn’t what owners and players do.
But when the next red light hits and I feel his gaze on me, my pulse spikes so hard it rattles my ribs.
Too close. Too human.
Too wrong.
At the same time, the car ride ends too soon.
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 my reply. 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.
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.