Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Maddox
We ride down in separate elevators.
After running into Jace the other day, we mutually decided it was best not to risk anymore run-ins with Vipers players or staff.
Going separately, we won’t get splashed across a tabloid site, social media, or handed to the board on a silver platter.
But it doesn’t stop the way my chest tightens when I watch her disappear into the other car.
Doesn’t stop the way I glance at the security camera and think about ripping it down.
By the time she pulls up at the rink, I’m waiting in the parking lot.
She tosses me a grin as she approaches, keys in hand. “You ready to lose?”
I lean against the hood of my SUV, arms crossed, and let my eyes drag over her. “You sure you want to skate in those jeans? You might need something more aerodynamic to catch up when I lap you.”
She snorts. “You’re cocky for someone who’s about to get his ego handed to him.”
“I’m a goalie,” I shoot back. “We’re built for humiliation.”
She laughs, and it’s the kind that gets under my skin—light, unguarded, and real. I haven’t heard her laugh like that outside a closed room.
Not around anyone but me.
She steps up to the side door and punches in a code on the keypad. The lock clicks.
The place is technically closed. But she’s the owner, so “technically” doesn’t apply to her.
She’s the boss. This is her ice, her world.
Her name on every piece of paper I signed.
But here she is, holding the door open like this is just for us.
I follow her inside, the sharp scent of chilled air and rubber hitting me all at once. The rink is dark, echoing, and empty.
But it doesn’t feel lonely.
It feels like something’s about to happen.
“I’ve got skates in my office. Want to meet in the locker rooms or center ice?”
“Wherever you plan to undress me, princess.”
She rolls her eyes with a smile. “Behave, Prince Charming. I’ll be right back.”
“I’ll be at center ice when you get back.”
I head for the locker room to get my skates, taking my time to lace up.
But I get lost in my head thinking about us because by the time I come back out, she’s at center ice.
The lights are low, just the main track lighting over the ice on. No music, no noise, just the quiet hum of the refrigeration system.
And there she is, spinning slow, arms tucked close, her movement so effortless it takes my brain a second to catch up and realize she changed into leggings and a fitted hoodie.
I didn’t think Sloane Carrington even owned clothes like that.
But it’s not her clothes that have me staring. It’s her movements.
It isn’t just skill. It’s muscle memory, grace, and precision. The kind of thing that doesn’t come from casual practice.
It’s in her bones.
She sees me, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks like someone else.
Not the owner, not the boss. Just a woman doing something she once loved.
And fuck if that doesn’t level me more than anything she said tonight.
If I’m going to lose this bet, I’ll at least make her work for it.
And if I’m lucky?
She’ll let me stay long enough to watch her fly.
She glides my way, cheeks flushed, hair pulled back in a low braid, and something about the way she looks—comfortable, grounded, and light on her feet—makes my throat tighten.
It’s the most arresting thing I’ve ever seen.
She looks home here.
“Ready to get your ass handed to you, Lasker?” she asks, stopping inches from me with a controlled spray of ice.
I arch a brow. “You mean, are you sure you can handle the humiliation?”
She just smirks. “I was landing triple lutzes when you were still learning how to tie your skates.”
“Big words for someone who’s about to eat my snow.”
She snorts. “Please. I’m a figure skater. I don’t fall. I descend.”
I bark out a laugh and skate backward, giving her space. “Fine. You set the terms.”
“Three laps. Full length of the rink. First one back to the blue line wins.”
“And what’s on the line?”
“If I win,” she says, tapping her blade against the ice, “you buy me dinner again. And this time, I pick the movie.”
“And if I win?”
“You won’t.”
I lift a brow. “That confident?”
“That terrified?” she tosses back.
Christ. She’s having fun and it’s fucking gorgeous.
We take our marks at the blue line, and she does a little bounce on her skates like it’s nothing. Just a casual weeknight duel with the guy she’s been riding all weekend.
“On your count,” I say.
“Three…two…one—go!”
She takes off like a shot.
For a second, I keep pace easily. I’m bigger, more powerful. My strides cover ground, and I know how to cut corners like I’m guarding the net from hell itself.
But by the second turn, I start to notice something.
She’s cleaner than me.
Every push is efficient. Her blade edges bite perfectly into the ice. She doesn’t muscle her way through—she flows. There’s no wasted movement. No effort burned on anything that doesn’t matter.
By the start of lap two, she’s ahead. By the end of it, she’s so far in front I’m questioning my entire damn athletic career.
Lap three is just damage control.
She crosses the blue line with both arms in the air and a triumphant, breathless laugh that echoes off the walls.
I coast in behind her, panting, stunned, and grinning like an idiot.
“What—” I gesture wildly. “What the hell was that?”
“Told you,” she says, turning toward me with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “You’re all power. No finesse.”
“Did you lace your skates with rocket fuel?”
“Steroids, actually. I keep them in my bra.”
I bark a laugh and double over, hands on my knees. “Jesus Christ.”
She skates over and nudges me with her shoulder. “Want a tip, hotshot?”
I stand and nod, still catching my breath. “Lay it on me.”
She moves closer, motioning to my skates. “Your stride’s solid, but you’re pushing from your heels too much. You’ve got to engage the toe pick—push through the ball of your foot and roll your weight across the blade. It gives you better acceleration.”
I blink. “That’s real advice.”
“You expected me to gloat and skate away?”
“I expected a lot of things. None of which included getting humbled on home ice.”
She shrugs. “You’re teachable.”
“Try me.”
That’s all it takes.
She positions herself a few feet away, demonstrating a clean push-off, then turns and has me copy her. I do, wobbly at first. She corrects my angle, adjusts my stance, then nods when I finally get it right.
“Better,” she says. “Now again. With more pressure through your inside edge.”
I take off and feel the difference. More speed. Cleaner glide.
When I stop, she claps.
“Gold star?” I ask, grinning.
“Yes, and lucky you, I won’t make you watch a rom-com next movie night.”
“Even better.”
I skate back toward her and catch the way she’s watching me—quietly pleased, a little surprised, and maybe just a bit proud.
“You really miss it, don’t you?” I ask.
She blinks. “What?”
“The ice. Skating.”
Her smile softens. “Every day.”
I want to say something more. Something about how she looked like poetry out there, how I’ve never seen anyone own a space so effortlessly. But I don’t. Not yet.
Instead, I just watch her for a minute. The way she stands so still in the middle of the rink, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist here. Like it never did.
And damn if I don’t fall just a little harder for her in that moment.
We’re both quiet for a while.
She leans against the boards, cheeks flushed and hair coming loose from her braid, looking out at the wide-open rink like it’s holding something I can’t see.
“You okay?” I ask.
Sloane nods slowly, then glances my way. “I haven’t skated like that in a long time.”
“You looked like you never stopped.”
A wry smile curves her lips. “I used to have a routine. For competitions. I could still probably skate it in my sleep.”
I tilt my head. “Show me.”
She laughs, startled. “It’s kind of silly without music.”
“Don’t care. I want to see.”
She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want to—because part of her does, and that scares her. I can see it in the way her fingers curl over the boards like she’s grounding herself.
But after a second, she pushes off.
And just like that, she transforms.
Her body shifts into muscle memory, graceful and sure. No hesitation. No performance for me. Just her cutting elegant curves into the ice with speed and control that make my chest go tight.
She moves through turns, crossovers, and jumps—not big ones, but clean and intentional. Arms out, posture perfect. She flows with a quiet rhythm only she can hear, and it’s…breathtaking.
Power and softness. Precision and heart.
It’s not a show. It’s a part of her.
And watching it—watching her—wrecks me in a way I don’t know how to explain.
She finishes at center ice with a final spin that slows into stillness, her hands at her sides, chest rising with effort. She doesn’t look at me right away. Just breathes, letting the ghost of music fade into silence.
I take a step onto the ice. Then another.
By the time I reach her, my throat’s tight.
“You still skate like it matters,” I say quietly.
Sloane lifts her eyes to mine, unsure. A little raw. “It did. For a long time.”
I reach out, brushing her hair back behind her ear, then slide my hand around the back of her neck.
“You were incredible.”
Her breath hitches and the air between us thickens, not with tension—but with something reverent.
Deep. Unspoken.
I pull her to me, and her hands clasp my shirt when our mouths meet.
We’re slow this time, as though any other way would break the moment we’re having.
I kiss her like she’s precious—because God knows she is—and like I may never get this moment again.
She moans under me, her lips parting beneath mine, and I take the opportunity to claim her softly, slowly.
It’s the most erotic kiss I’ve ever had in my life.
When we pull away, our breaths come out in small puffs of clouds around us, and I keep my hand against her cheek, feeling the ice-cold flush in her skin and the heat rising beneath it.
Letting her know she’s seen.
And that I won’t forget what she just gave me.
Not ever.
The silence stretches between us as we step off the ice. Her fingers brush mine as we walk, but she doesn’t grab my hand. Doesn’t need to.
As we change out of our skates, the tension's already there—woven through every movement we make.
It pulses under my skin, right behind my ribs, hotter than it should be for a night skate.
“Ready to head out?” I ask.
Because while I said no sex and I’m trying hard to keep to that, I want to hold her in my bed, skin on skin.
Just to know she’s real and for now, all mine.
She smiles softly, but shakes her head. “Not yet. I want to show you something.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” My voice is rough and low and the look she’s giving me makes my heart pound.
But she doesn’t answer.
Instead, she walks toward the far wall of the rink—one I hadn’t paid much attention to before. Her heels echo faintly now that she’s back in boots. There’s a narrow black panel mounted beside a sleek steel door.
I watch her key in a code and press her thumb to a scanner. The red light turns green. A small screen flashes: CAMERAS DISABLED – PRIVATE ACCESS GRANTED.
She turns over her shoulder, eyes locking with mine.
“Follow me,” she says.
The door opens, and cold air rolls out from a narrow private corridor. Concrete walls. Low lights. Silence.
I follow her.
Every footstep echoes like a countdown.
She doesn’t speak. Just walks ahead with purpose, her spine straight, her chin high. Like this isn’t the first time she’s done this.
But it is the first time it’s meant something.
At the end of the tunnel is a dark wood door with a fingerprint reader and brass lettering I almost miss:
OWNER’S SUITE – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
She presses her thumb. The lock clicks.
And when she opens the door, I stop breathing.
Because there’s no turning back after this.
Not after the way she skated. Not after what I felt watching her. Not after the look in her eyes right now.
“You sure?” I ask, voice hoarse.
She lifts her chin, eyes steady. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I wasn’t.”
And that’s it.
That’s the end of me.