Game Misconduct (The Atlanta Vipers #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Sloane

It takes a hell of a woman to run a hockey team, and headlines like this remind me the world still expects me to fail:

“Trending Hockey News: Is the Atlanta Vipers Second Season Doomed Before It Begins?”

It’s clickbait. Lazy speculation wrapped in a question mark so they can pretend it’s not slander.

But it still hits like a gut punch.

I minimize the tab and pull up the spreadsheet I’ve already combed through three times this morning.

And yep. The one column that matters the most is still using the P word.

Player Contract Status: Maddox Lasker – Pending.

My fingers curl tight around the edge of my desk. I reach for my coffee cup instead only to find it cold.

Again.

That makes three so far today.

And the sun has barely climbed over the Atlanta skyline.

The fact that I’ve left any coffee behind, much less multiple ones, is how I know I’m coming unglued.

If the cup isn’t empty, I’m not in control—and right now, control is slipping between my fingers faster than this team’s PR narrative.

My cell phone dances a jig on my desk and when I pick it up, I swallow hard when I see the agent’s name on the screen.

Peter Dalton.

Also, when the hell did it become eight o’clock? I came in at six thinking I’d get a shit ton of work done.

Joke’s on me. All I’ve managed to do is waste coffee and work my stomach into knots.

Time is a blur when your entire legacy hangs on a hockey player who gives new meaning to procrastination.

I swipe the screen, putting Peter on speaker. “Please tell me you have news I want to hear.”

“Hey, Sloane. Good morning.” His thick Boston accent fills my office with a tone that’s too casual for my liking.

Then again, Maddox’s agent is always too casual—like if he keeps his voice light enough, I won’t notice he’s full of shit.

Grinding my teeth together, I stand and walk to the window, my heels clicking softly against the polished floor of my office. “I don’t have time for charm. Where’s Maddox’s signature?”

He laughs like we’re on friendly terms. “You know Maddox. He’s… processing.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?”

“He’s not trying to be difficult.”

I huff out a humorless laugh, watching the streets fill with traffic. “Maddox Lasker not difficult? We both know that’s bullshit, Peter.”

Another pause. “He’s just used to Boston. That’s a lot of years with the Freeze. A lot of routine. Your offer’s solid. He’s just not sure he wants to uproot.”

“What’s he actually doing? Because from where I sit, it looks a lot like hiding.”

“He’s not hiding. He’s weighing his options.”

“What options?” I snap, running out of patience for this fucking runaround Peter seems hell bent on giving me. “He’s a free agent with no active offers except mine, and the clock is ticking.”

“I wouldn’t say no active offers—”

I close my eyes and silently count to ten. If I lose my shit, the next thing I’ll read about is how emotional I am.

Fucking patriarchy.

“Don’t play semantics with me. If he had a real offer, he’d have taken it. This is his shot. I gave him a lifeline, and all he’s done is stall.”

“Sloane, come on. He’s just—he’s been through a lot, okay? He needs time to make sure this is the right move.”

I pause, tapping my nail against the phone screen, watching the seconds of the call tick by. “You told me three weeks ago it wasn’t about the team.”

“It’s not.”

“Then what the hell is it about?”

Peter exhales like I’m the difficult one. “He doesn’t like change. He’s quiet, methodical, set in his ways.”

“So am I, but I still manage to get shit done.”

“Sloane, he just needs more time.”

“He doesn’t get time,” I say coldly. “He gets a choice. He either wants to play hockey or he doesn’t. And if he wants to sit in Boston brooding over his past, fine. But not on my timeline.”

Peter sighs. “You’re putting a lot of pressure on him.”

“Damn right I am. Because I’m not running a charity, Peter—I’m building a franchise. And right now your client is the only thing standing between me and the season opener without a goalie the team needs.”

“I’ll talk to him again—”

“You know what? Don’t bother. I’ll talk to him. In person. If Maddox has a problem, he can say it to my face. I’m not negotiating through his silence, and I’m not giving him another week to play hide and sulk.”

Peter sighs. The kind of sigh I’ve heard a lot since my father died. The patronizing kind. “Sloane, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well, lucky for me, I didn’t ask for your opinion. And, Peter? Let your client know, I won’t be coming to play nice.”

I toss the phone onto my desk and drop into my chair. Pressing my fingers into my temples, my stomach twists with a mix of rage and something colder.

Something sharper.

Doubt.

I glance at the framed jersey on the wall. The one with my father’s name stitched into it. With his signature scrawled across the fabric in black Sharpie—fading at the edges, like he’s slipping out of reach even now.

“You asshole,” I whisper. Not with venom. With something else. Something that coils tight and stings behind my eyes. “What were you thinking, Dad?”

The question lies heavy in the silence.

I push out of my chair before the ache can settle in too deep and walk over to the frame.

My fingertips hover over the glass, not quite touching; like maybe if I don’t make contact, I won’t fall apart.

“You started this expansion team to be your team. Your legacy. And you handed it to me like I’d know what the hell to do with it. Like I’d know how to finish building it.”

I stare at the name, the number. My throat works around the grief I can’t swallow.

“Was I your backup plan? Or was this always the play?”

Involuntarily, I hold my breath as though waiting for his powerful, deep voice to answer me.

I need him to answer me.

My heart clenches knowing this is one need that’ll never be met.

The glass reflects my face back at me—tired eyes, a tight jaw, lipstick that should be smudged but wouldn’t dare.

I look like I know what I’m doing. Like the woman who stands behind a podium and smiles while the media circled like sharks.

But inside…

Inside, it’s chaos.

“What would you do?” I ask him, softer this time. My voice cracks halfway through, but I let it break.

Would he see the way they look at me now? Would he hear the doubt, feel the weight? Would he have known how to handle a player like Maddox Lasker—ice in his veins, fire under his skin?

Of course, he would have.

But would he have trusted me to figure it out?

I breathe out hard, like I can expel the ache with air. My hand finally touches the glass. Cold. Smooth. Impenetrable.

Just like him.

“I’m not you,” I murmur. “But I’m all that’s left.”

God, I hope that’s enough.

The office is quiet except for the hum of tension vibrating behind my ribs.

Three taps is the only warning I get before the glass door opens.

“You looked like you were about to throw something,” my assistant, Tessa, says, stepping in with her usual quiet authority and a fresh cup of coffee. “I brought reinforcements.”

With one last glance at the jersey, I step away and let the armor fall back into place. “You’re a lifesaver; thanks. How bad is it out there?” I ask, crossing back to my desk.

“Depends…” She trades out one of the mugs with cold coffee with the fresh cup. “If you mean the media—circling. If you mean Dean—he’ll call momentarily.”

She grins. “If you mean me—I still believe in you, even when you look like a Bond villain about to detonate your desk.”

That earns her a weak smile.

As I sit down and sip the fresh coffee–sighing when it hits my tongue–she perches on the edge of my desk, perfectly at ease in a crisis. “Want to talk about it?”

I drum my fingers on my desk with my free hand. “Lasker’s still stalling. Peter gave me another non-answer. I told him to warn his client I’m coming to Boston and I’m not going to be nice.”

Her brows lift. “That’ll go over well.”

“I don’t care if it does. I’ve kissed every ring, massaged every ego, fought off every old-school owner who said I was too young or too green or too female. I refuse to let Maddox fucking Lasker be the reason they write my obituary.”

Tessa nods. “Then we go get him.”

Before I can reply, the desk phone buzzes and Dean’s name flashes on the screen.

Dean Ward. The GM of the Atlanta Vipers.

He’s a former pro center turned front-office whiz. Pragmatic, calculating, hard to read.

And he uses silence like a weapon. His hockey mind is as sharp as they come, and he’s known for talent spotting and aggressive trades.

My father handpicked him to be the general manager of the Vipers, having known Dean since he was a rookie in the NEHL.

And from what I gathered after my father passed unexpectedly, Dean thought he would be the one calling the shots.

The shots my father left for me to call.

Needless to say, Dean isn’t my biggest fan, which is fine with me.

I’m not his biggest cheerleader either.

I press the speaker button. “What’s up, Dean?”

His voice crackles, already annoyed. “Still nothing?”

“Still nothing.”

“Then we cut him. Call up the G2. Make it look intentional, and get the press off your back.”

“No. I’m headed to Boston now to talk to him.”

“Are you kidding me? He’s not worth chasing.”

“He’s a cornerstone and worth confronting.”

He snorts. “You want the league’s most volatile goalie anchoring your crease because…?”

“Because he’s still the best shot we’ve got at launching the new season with credibility.”

“You’ve got the whole team except him.”

“I’ve got a perfect launch—except one glaring hole the media is already picking at. This isn’t about chasing a man. This is about not letting silence write my story.”

“You sure this isn’t about proving something?”

I glance over at the framed jersey again, biting back a sigh.

Fuck me if legacy doesn’t feel like a noose some days.

“I’m sure.”

Dean pauses, the silence stretching.

“If there’s nothing else–”

“You’re letting your pride get in the way, Sloane.”

Pride.

It’s always the word they use when a woman won’t yield.

Never strategy. Never guts. Just pride.

“I’m not proud,” I say tightly. “I’m strategic. I know what optics matter right now. And if I let the only unsigned contract slide, I send a message I can’t take back.”

Dean sighs. “Then handle it, boss.”

The line goes dead.

My hand curls into a fist that I’d use on his throat if he were standing in front of me.

I jab the button harder than necessary, my blood boiling.

“Find out how long it’ll take the jet to get ready for a trip to Boston.”

Tessa’s already tapping on her phone. “Done. Want me to book a driver too?”

I nod. “And a room. Somewhere quiet.”

“Quiet might be hard in Boston,” she says, already on the move. “But I’ll find you somewhere with thick walls.”

She pauses at the door, tilting her head. “You going to punch Lasker when you get there?”

“I might.”

“Just make sure the cameras are rolling. We need the coverage.”

She flashes a grin and disappears.

I blow out a breath and lean back in my chair. Staring at the ceiling, I breath in for three and out for three. Once, twice, three times before my blood pressure lowers.

Minutes later, with my laptop, phone, and a file folder with the name Maddox Lasker in my tote bag, I’m heading out the door.

I stop at Tessa’s desk. “I’m going home to pack. You know how to find me.”

“Yep. The usual flight crew is on standby and said they’d be ready to leave in an hour and a half, flying out of PDK.”

“Perfect.”

“And Richard’s waiting with the car downstairs. He has the itinerary.”

“Thanks for throwing that together, Tess. I’m so grateful I could cry right now.”

The smile she gives me is genuine. “I’m rooting for you, girl.”

“Glad to know someone is.”

“Call me when you land. And maybe try not to strangle anyone before then.”

“No promises.”

Her laughter follows me down the hall, leading to the elevators.

Thankfully, I’m alone in the elevator when I pull up his profile again.

Maddox Lasker. G1. Age 39. Four-time All-Star. Plays like a weapon. Unrestricted free agent. Played his last full season like the ice owed him something.

The Boston Freeze colors still frame his headshot—blue and silver with that glint of contempt in his eyes.

His photo glares up at me from the screen. Stone-faced. Cut jaw. That faint scar above his eyebrow is like punctuation for a sentence he never says out loud.

There’s no denying it. The man is smoking hot. Always has been.

The kind of man who looks like a warning label and tastes like regret.

The kind of man who’ll fuck you up and make you thank him for the wreckage, which you would do willingly.

The kind of man I’ve always avoided.

But damn if my pulse doesn’t kick just looking at him. Even when I’m ready to wring his neck for tanking my launch momentum.

He’s trouble with a capital T.

Unfortunately, he’s still my best bet.

The elevator dings and I straighten, slipping my phone into my purse. In the few moments before the steel doors open, I see my reflection.

On the outside, I look like what I am. Composed CEO. Franchise owner. Woman on a mission.

But underneath?

Underneath, I’m already bracing for the collision.

Let Maddox Lasker glare all he wants. Let him brood in his fortress of Boston solitude.

If he won’t come to Atlanta, then I’ll bring Atlanta to him.