Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Maddox
“Is Maddox Lasker being traded from Boston? Reports from The Freeze front office won’t confirm or deny, but sources close to the team say Lasker’s days are numbered.”
The perfectly coiffed blonde continues as I stare at the TV screen—sports highlights flashing by, each replay twisting the knife of my career.
My pulse pounds with each commentator’s dissection of my stats.
Alone, perched on the edge of the sleek gray couch in my Boston apartment, I usually find a certain peace in being by myself. In my minimalistic sanctuary.
Minimalism means less baggage, fewer ways for the world to get its hooks in me.
It's supposed to feel liberating.
Spoiler alert: right now, it doesn't.
My gaze sweeps around my condo, taking in the smooth surfaces, where not even dust dares to hang around. With a gut punch, I realize just how much it reflects me—empty, controlled, almost aggressively uncluttered.
Restlessness rises in my chest, pushing me to stand and cross to the large window looking out over the city.
Down below on the street, the city hums—horns blare, people walk fast, eyes down, because eye contact only invites inane conversation.
And who’s got time for that?
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Hard eyes stare back, rimmed with shadows and edged in bitterness.
I barely recognize the man in the glass. And I have no idea what the hell to do about it.
But the team knew what to do, didn’t they?
Boston to Atlanta. Traded like broken furniture—shuffled off, too volatile to keep. A liability, a PR nightmare they weren’t willing to handle anymore.
Never mind the championship trophies I helped them win over the years.
I run a hand roughly over my face, irritation flaring. At thirty-nine, it was easy for them to rationalize the trade.
Not only would I make the team’s spin doctors earn their keep, but they think I’m washed-up—a veteran presence only useful for ticket sales.
And according to them, I’m not great at that anymore.
My agent, Peter, insisted it’s a fresh start—new city, new team. But he doesn’t get it. How could he?
His words were calm, logical, rationalizing every bruising blow to my pride. "It's best for everyone, Maddox," he'd murmured.
Best for everyone but me.
I run my thumb along my jaw, where the bruise from the fight has faded. Too bad the memory and the fall out from it all hasn’t.
Defending a rookie had cost me everything.
My phone buzzes insistently from the coffee table, Peter’s name at the top of multiple text boxes.
Grinding my jaw, I stomp over to the table and snatch up the phone, swiping the screen open.
Peter: You there?
Peter: Contract’s solid. You know that.
Peter: I know Atlanta’s not Boston, but this is your only real chance. Dallas passed. Tampa passed. Don’t throw away the opportunity, Maddox.
Peter: Unless, of course, you ARE ready to retire
Fucker. He knows exactly what buttons to push.
Frustration boils beneath my skin, a raw heat that scorches my throat. I thumb a terse reply.
Me: I’m not retiring. I’m thinking.
His reply is instantaneous, as if he’s poised, waiting, knowing what I was going to say before I even knew what I was going to say.
Peter: You mean sulking. Don’t make me cut my vacation short and fly to Boston. Sign. The. Fucking. Contract.
I snort.
Me: Since when do you go on vacation?
Peter: Since the wife forced me to. But we’re not talking about me.
Peter: Look, M. I get where you’re coming from. I’d be pissed too. But we went over this already. You gotta let Boston go. They promised to keep the details quiet and waive your fines if you promised to go away quietly.
Me: I have been quiet. I haven’t said shit.
Peter: I know. But we both know the media will catch wind of this sooner than later, and the longer you wait to give Atlanta an answer, the worse this will be. In other words, if you want to continue to play, get your shit together.
I toss the phone aside, knuckles white, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Peter’s right, but that doesn’t make it sting any less.
I built something in Boston. A legacy. Respect. Roots. Something I never had growing up.
Trading it all for a city where I’m just another expendable player twists sharply in my gut.
I pace like a caged lion, thoughts spiraling.
Like I’ve got a fight coming and no place to throw the first punch. Heat builds low in my spine, pressure pulsing like a war drum in my chest.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it, breath hot and fast, but my fingers are ice.
I’m wired and numb at the same time—like my body can’t pick a lane.
Atlanta's just another city. Another stadium. Another jersey. But it doesn't feel that way.
It feels like exile.
A sharp knock jolts me from the simmering anger. I glance at the clock, hunger gnawing low in my gut. Expecting food delivery, I ignore it.
My face is known in this city. It only took once to make the mistake of opening the door to a delivery guy who ended up being a rabid fan.
He tried to get into my condo, and my food was stone cold by the time he left.
Lesson learned.
But another knock comes, more insistent this time.
Why the fuck is the Dasher knocking? Don’t they read the instructions?
Then a voice cuts through—female, firm, undeniably familiar.
“Maddox. Open up.”
Fuck my life. Did she actually fly her fancy ass up to Boston?
I press fingers to my temples, irritation spiraling. This is so much worse than a rabid hockey fan wanting to talk about all my stats and tell me his life story.
This is a hockey owner who doesn’t like the fact I’m not asking how high when she says jump.
Sloane fucking Carrington.
I will say this for the woman. Her kind of persistence could make stone walls crumble.
Which, admittedly, makes licks of anxiety churn in my gut.
Three more sharp knocks, rapid, relentless. Each strike reverberates in my chest, agitation coiling tighter. Her voice slices through again, harder and edged with steel.
“Open the door, Lasker. Or I’ll keep knocking.”
“Go away,” I grumble softly. She can’t hear me, but even if she could, she wouldn't listen.
As promised, she continues to knock, not letting up. If I weren’t so pissed off, I’d admire the set of brass balls on her. She’s bold enough to invade my territory and doesn’t sound the least bit sorry for it.
With an exhausted groan, I stalk to the door, each step punctuated by resentment.
I yank the door open, shirtless, using bare skin as armor, an attempt to unsettle her.
But the instant she fills my vision, framed by muted hallway lights, every nerve ending fires.
And I’m the one who’s unsettled.
Sloane Carrington in the flesh puts Sloane Carrington on the screen to shame.
Dark blonde hair tumbles around her shoulders in waves, and her eyes flash sharp green fire. In her skirt and tailored coat, she looks like she was engineered to make men underestimate her before she cuts their legs out from under them.
And those fuck me heels make her legs go on for days.
I should not be noticing any of that.
And yet, here I am with a chubbie.
Her stare flicks down, slow, deliberate. Skimming my tattoos and lingering a heartbeat too long on my exposed chest.
When her eyes meet mine again, she doesn’t look the least bit apologetic.
“How the hell did you even get in?”
She shrugs, unbothered. “Your doorman likes ambitious women in heels.”
I make a mental note to have a talk with Carlos.
Leaning against the doorframe, I cross my arms, feigning indifference I don’t feel. Pulse hammering, I mask my reaction beneath carefully crafted sarcasm.
One elegant brow raises. “Are you going to let me in?”
She holds up a manila folder that I know contains my contract. “I'm delivering your future.”
I huff out a laugh. “Dramatic much, princess?”
Her eyes narrow but her voice is velvet-soft, razor-sharp beneath. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?” My tone drips mockery, defiance. “Don’t recall inviting you.”
“I wouldn’t be at your door uninvited if you’d answer your phone.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“Oh, I’m sure there is, but that doesn’t stop me.” Her chin lifts, defiance blazing brighter as she steps past me, her coat brushing my bare chest.
The residual heat that momentary contact leaves behind can fuck all the way off.
Her perfume lingers—a clean, expensive scent at odds with the turmoil inside me. It’s a sharp contrast to my stark apartment.
“You've got thirty seconds.” I shove the door shut with unnecessary force, sound vibrating through my spine. She doesn't flinch, unperturbed as she tosses a contract onto the coffee table. The paper lands with a soft slap, like a gauntlet.
She turns to face me. “You’ve got forty-eight hours.” Her voice remains unwavering, as if stating the obvious.
“You came all the way here just to deliver a contract I didn’t ask for?”
“I came here because you matter.”
I blink. The words hit in a place I thought I’d boarded up a long time ago.
For a second, we just stare. The air between us tightens, shifts. Something electric moves through it.
Not just tension—a charge.
“And if I don’t sign?” I snap, contempt masking the vulnerability causing my muscles to tense up.
She doesn’t say anything, just continues to study me curiously with those forest green eyes.
I smirk, an irresistible urge to press her buttons. To rattle that unshakeable composure. “Maybe I’ll retire. Coach high school hockey.”
She steps forward, boldness radiating with each decisive move. I brace against the heated flush her proximity brings, my pulse traitorously quickening.
“You won’t retire,” she murmurs, conviction heavy in her tone. “You’re not ready to fade into obscurity.”
I lean closer, jaw clenched, challenging her head-on. Her scent invades my senses, and heat crackles between us, electric, unwanted.
“You think you know me.” Low, harsh words escape, a veiled threat beneath them. “Princess, you know nothing.”
She meets my glare, unflinching, stunningly composed. “I know enough. Enough to see you have something left to prove. Mostly to yourself.”
A slow, hot breath fills my lungs. My jaw flexes as I fight a rising tide of discomfort. I step closer again, forcing her chin upward.
Her breath hitches softly, causing a dark glee to race through my veins at that tiny victory.
“You have no idea what I want, Sloane.”
She holds her ground, that stubborn mouth curving slowly, dangerously. “Then enlighten me.”
Why the fuck do I find her so tempting, terrifying, impossible?
Sloane watches me closely, eyes flickering briefly to my clenched jaw before returning resolutely to my eyes.
“You delivered your message. You can leave the same way you came in.”
My shoulders tighten, awareness coiling sharply as she pauses, refusing to retreat. Instead, her voice comes soft, whisper-close, searing through my defenses.
“You’ll sign.” Her voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t let pride cost you your career.”
She picks up the envelope, walks over, and places it in my hands. Her fingers brush mine—barely.
But the contact of our skin hums between us.
“You’ve got two days. After that, the offer’s gone.”
She turns to leave, her heels clicking sharply, echoing in the silence.
“You always this pushy with your players?”
She spins on one of her spiky heels, a sharp feline smile curving her lips. “Only the ones worth the trouble.”
Her words are a sucker punch to my gut. I stand frozen, my breath tight, my pulse erratic.
The front door closes quietly, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air, making my knees weak.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I drop down on the sofa with a heavy sigh just as the vibration of my phone shatters the silence.
A message from Peter lights up the screen and after reading it, I bite back a growl. His words are a reminder I don’t need.
Peter: Atlanta’s a good market. Don’t screw this up.
Leaning back, I stare up at the ceiling as though it will give me all the answers. I sit in the heavy, suffocating silence long after Sloane walked out.
Deep within, beneath the layers of anger and pride, a flicker ignites. A reckless hope I’d nearly extinguished.
Maybe Sloane Carrington is right.
Maybe I'm not finished yet.
Maybe I can still prove them all wrong.
My heart pounds, erratic with sudden, unwanted possibilities.
The fight in the locker room wasn't only about defending a rookie. I can’t escape the cold, hard truth.
I want redemption.
I fucking crave it.
Maybe Atlanta isn't exile.
Maybe it's a chance.
But I’m not going to lie.
Leaving Boston feels like severing limbs. Atlanta is unknown, uncertain. And hot as the surface of the sun in the summer.
I’ve never been good with uncertainty or any type of change.
The thought tightens my throat, clenches my gut as the reality sinks in—I’m leaving Boston, the place I thought I'd retire. Trading familiar ice for unknown territory. Leaving comfort behind.
At my age, it's a terrifying fucking thought.
But I can’t ignore the frustration and fragile hope battling it out deep within my belly.
Sloane was right about one thing. I’m not done fighting, no matter how much it hurts. No matter how risky it is to open myself up to the possibility again.
Forty-eight hours.
Just enough time to make Sloane Carrington sweat a little.
I rub rough hands down my face, pulse thudding unevenly.
The phone buzzes once more. A glance at the screen shows it’s fucking Peter again.
He’s nothing if not persistent.
Peter: I know Sloane is a new owner, but she’s impressive. She knows the game, on and off the ice. She learned the ropes from one of the best. Don’t underestimate her.
I stare at the screen, irritation and reluctant admiration mingling uncomfortably.
He’s right—damn him. Sloane Carrington might be younger, driven, challenging, but there’s a strength in her I can’t ignore.
“Only the ones worth the trouble.”
It wasn’t the answer I expected.
I push my hands through my hair, pulling the strands until my scalp stings.
Fuck me, I’ve let her get inside my head and that’s the last place I need her to be.
She could destroy me. In more ways than one. Or she could be exactly what I need.
I can’t read her. And worse? I want to. I need to. That kind of need isn’t just dangerous—for a man like me, it’s lethal.
Either way, I’m fucked.
Because it only took one meeting with her to know she’s going to be the most dangerous thing I come across in Atlanta.
I blow out a hard breath of resignation.
If she’s the test, I’m already flunking.
And the season hasn’t even started.