Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Maddox
The puck slams off my pad with a satisfying thud, but I don’t flinch.
Drop. React. Reset.
I track the next shot out of the corner of my eye, already moving before the rookie’s blade makes contact. Low and left.
I smother it with my glove and fire it back to center with a flick of my wrist.
Coach Holt blows the whistle, but I don’t stand. Just stay crouched, watching the ice like it owes me something.
“Someone’s dialed in today,” the assistant coach mutters.
I block out the noise and focus on my breathing. In through the nose. Out slow through the mouth.
The cool sting of the rink air anchors me, but it doesn’t quiet the burn still lodged behind my ribs.
She kissed me goodbye this morning like it wasn’t a big deal.
Like we hadn’t spent two days fucking and talking and pretending the outside world didn’t exist.
Like she wasn’t the first person I’ve ever let see anything of me—and didn’t run.
I tap the post with my blocker and push to my feet.
Keep your head in the game, Lasker.
Everything outside this crease is noise. This is the only place I still know exactly what to do.
The drill resets. Riley skates past with a smirk. “Whatever you did this weekend, do it again.”
I plan to do as much as Sloane will let me. And often.
But I don’t take the bait.
Don’t let them see that I’m doing my damnedest not to think about the way she made coffee in nothing but a robe, or the way she curled into my chest when she got cold, or the way she said stay like it was a lifeline.
None of that belongs here.
Here, I’m just the goalie who shows up and doesn’t fuck up.
Coach Holt watches from behind the glass, arms crossed. “You keep this up, Lasker, we might actually win something this year.”
The boys laugh, but I don’t.
I crouch again and tap both posts, centering myself.
Because as much as I want her, as much as I’m already in deeper than I planned—I can’t let it show.
Not here.
I push thoughts of her away and watch down the ice as Cal misses his line change.
Even from my post, I catch it immediately.
Riley skates past him, barking his name, but the kid’s in his own head.
Slow to react, late to the bench, shoulders tight like he’s bracing for a hit that never comes.
Coach Holt doesn’t blow the whistle, just lets it ride—probably hoping someone else will light him up instead.
The next rush comes fast. Logan threads a puck through traffic, and Cal fumbles the reception so hard it ricochets off his stick and bounces straight toward me.
Easy glove save.
But I don't feel good about it.
The drill ends and the guys circle center ice, chatting and catching their breath.
Cal hangs back.
I skate over slowly, not close enough to draw attention, but near enough to keep an eye on him.
He leans on his stick like his legs are giving out. Mouth tight. Jaw locked.
And that same look is back—the one I saw the night of the gala when he damn near drove himself home shitfaced.
I didn’t say anything then.
Should’ve.
But I made damn sure he didn’t get behind that wheel. Gave him my car and stood in the freezing wind waiting for a blacked-out Uber like I was some twenty-year-old rookie instead of the guy they signed to save this franchise.
Didn’t regret it for a second.
Still don’t.
Now I see the same cracks forming.
“Reid!” Holt barks. “Get your head on straight or get off my ice.”
Cal nods once, sharp and silent, but he doesn’t lift his eyes.
Something’s wrong.
And I know that look. Hell, I wore that look for most of my first season.
The one that says I can’t ask for help because I don’t think I’ve earned it yet.
The whistle blows again, and practice resumes.
But while the others are skating drills, I stay back. Watch him fumble a pass, whiff a shot, bite the inside of his cheek so hard I see the muscle twitch from thirty feet away.
Rookie or not, that kid’s drowning.
And I’ve seen too many guys sink because no one ever threw them a rope.
Soon, Coach is blowing the whistle calling practice and giving us an end of practice pep talk before we make our way into the locker room.
I head for the showers and take a stall in the far corner away from the noise of the younger guys.
I’m in my head and need to think. Now that I’m off the ice, all I can think about is Sloane.
When I turn on the water, it’s cold.
I let it hit me full blast, no steam, no heat. Just a punishing slap to the spine to scrub the morning off my skin.
But it doesn’t work.
Because I still feel her.
The silk of her sheets twisted around my legs.
Her robe hanging open while she stole bacon off my plate.
That sleepy, raspy laugh she gave me like it belonged to no one else.
I brace my palms against the tile and drop my head under the spray, eyes shut.
I can still smell her shampoo on my skin.
Her voice floats back to me—soft and quiet like dawn.
It happened. And I don’t regret it.
I shouldn’t have stayed the weekend. Should’ve left the second the sun rose.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
And now I don’t want to pretend.
I step out of the shower and grab a towel, rough with bleach and team logos. The locker room’s half-empty now. Most of the guys already gone or sprawled on benches, scrolling their phones xor bullshitting like it's just another Monday.
For them, maybe it is.
I tug my hoodie over my head, sit on the bench, and check my phone.
No message.
Not surprised. Not mad. But something in my chest pulls tight anyway.
I flip the phone face-down and scrub a hand over my jaw.
We said we’d keep it quiet.
Said we’d reassess when the season ends.
But the way I feel right now?
The way I felt when she looked at me like I was worth choosing?
That’s not something I want to hide.
And that thought—more than anything—scares the ever-living shit out of me.
Because I don’t do visible. I don’t ask to be seen.
But damn if I don’t want to be seen by her.
Fuck.
This is why I’ve avoided catching feelings like the plague. It makes me want things I have no business wanting.
And from people who deserve better than me.
I grab my bag and head out, ready to be home in the solitude of my condo.
Or am I?
The fact that she’s in the same building as me right now ignites the need to see her like an obsession.
Instead, I head to the rink. Maybe the sharp, cold air will ground me like it usually does.
Ground me and tell me to go the fuck home.
Do not pass go.
Or Sloane’s office.
But when I get to the ice, it isn’t empty.
Cal’s still out there, skating a loop with his head down, stick dragging like he’s running through sludge.
A puck slips off his blade mid-drill and careens toward the boards.
He mutters something under his breath and goes after it.
I hover in the exit tunnel, dressed in my off-ice gear, but with one glove still clutched in my hand.
I should leave, let the kid have his space to wallow.
But I don’t.
Wallowing in his misery isn’t going to help get his head out of his ass and keep him off waivers.
I watch him stumble through another drill—tight turns, puck control, a cross-body pass that sails too far and hits the boards with a crack.
He exhales hard, shoulders tight, skates back to start it again.
No one’s watching. No one left to impress.
Except me.
I start to walk away. Get as far as the top of the stairs before something in me—something I don’t usually fucking listen to—pulls me back.
I drop my bag, put on my skates, and step onto the ice. “Reid.”
Cal jerks around like I caught him shoplifting.
He skates toward me, sheepish and flushed. “Hey. Uh…didn’t think anyone was still here.”
I toss him a puck from the nearby bucket. “You’re not keeping your top hand high enough. You’re losing accuracy in your follow-through.”
He nods slowly. “Okay. Got it.”
I step into position. “Again. From the dot.”
We run the drill.
No praise. No pep talk.
Just sharp angles, quiet ice, and the slap of sticks.
I correct his stance. Force a reset. Make him skate the same route until he gets it clean.
He doesn’t whine.
He works.
After the third round, we pause at center ice, sticks resting across our knees.
Cal’s breathing hard. Sweat dripping from the ends of his curls. He glances at me, eyes uncertain.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says. “I’ve read all the articles. You don’t really…do people.”
I tap the blade of my stick against his. “Don’t get used to it.”
He huffs a laugh. “Why help me, then?”
I shift my weight, eyes tracking a faint scar in the glass.
“You remind me of someone,” I say quietly. “And I didn’t have anyone when I looked like that.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Go another few rounds and then get home for some rest before the road trip starts tomorrow. They’re tiring and can be brutal.”
“Got it. Thanks again, Lasker.”
I nod once and skate off the ice.
He doesn’t follow right away.
Good.
He’s not done yet.
I should take my own advice. Head home and get ready for a long road trip stint starting in New York and ending in Seattle.
But I haven’t even caught a glimpse of her all day except for what I see in my mind’s eye.
And I need to see her.
Not because I want to talk about the game.
Not because I’ve got something to say.
But because after practice, after Cal, after the echo of her laugh in my head while I stripped off my skates—I need to know she’s real.
My feet take me in the direction of the elevators and up to the front office floor.
Thankfully, it’s quiet; most of the suits cleared out a long time ago.
But her light’s still on.
Her assistant isn’t at her desk. The door’s cracked just enough.
Yeah, I should definitely go home.
Instead, I knock once.
Her voice drifts out, low and tight. “Come in.”
She’s at her desk in a slim black dress, legs crossed, laptop open. Her hair’s up and her heels are off.
There's a coffee cup in her hand and tension in her spine.
She looks like power.
She looks like the woman I had under me hours ago, nails in my back and breath in my mouth.
And she looks tired.
She blinks once when she sees me, like she wasn’t expecting this—like maybe she figured I wouldn’t follow through on all the things I said to her.
“Hey,” she says, setting down the cup.
I shut the door behind me. “Hey.”
Her eyes flick over me—damp hair, fresh clothes, the hoodie I yanked on in the locker room. Her mouth softens slightly.
“Practice go okay?”
“Fine.”
She quirks a brow. “That it?”
I cross the room, slow steps on the hardwood floor, and stop in front of her desk.
I don’t touch her.
I don’t kiss her.
I just look.
And she gets it.
Because something shifts in her posture—less boss, more…Sloane.
She closes the laptop and leans back. “Lock the door.”
I raise a brow, and my cock suddenly stands at attention.
And I lock the door.
She stands and walks around the desk, then stops in front of me.
Up close, I can see the tired in her eyes. The fight behind it. The crack she’s keeping sealed by sheer will.
I slide a hand to her hip, palm resting just enough to anchor her. “I needed to see you.”
“You’re seeing me.”
“Not the version with the armor on.”
Her breath hitches. “It’s Monday, Maddox.”
I lean in, mouth near her ear. “Then give me five minutes to pretend it’s not.”