Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Maddox
The ice doesn’t ask who I am. Doesn’t care what I lost. It just waits—clean, cold, honest. Out here, everything else falls away.
My lungs burn, and my quads scream. My skin is slick with sweat under my hoodie as it clings to my spine, and collects at the small of my back.
But I keep going.
I skate like I’m chasing something. Maybe I am. I want to skate whatever this fucking tightness in my chest is that makes breathing difficult.
It’s been here nearly an hour already. I don’t have a clue how many laps I’ve skated so far. All I know is that I’ll keep moving until punishment becomes clarity. Until breath is the only sound and pain’s the only thing louder than her voice in my head.
Only when it matters.
Her words won’t let go of me. Not even after a dozen hard laps.
I dig my blades into the ice and push harder.
Common Ice is empty. Just the hiss of my skates carving into the frozen surface and the rasp of my breath echoing through the rafters.
The overhead lights buzz like they’re judging me, and the chill cuts deeper than usual. Not that I care. I didn’t come here to be warm.
I came to remind myself I still belong somewhere. Even if that somewhere is foreign and not where I planned to end my career.
The last year of my life here in Boston plays like a movie reel in my head. All of the media bullshit, the rumors and whispers, the closed door meetings, and then the final blow.
Why the fuck am I holding on to this place? It’s treated me like shit for the last year. Even though I’ve given this team, this city, this community the best years of my life.
Years I can’t get back.
Blowing out a breath, I push my body harder, faster until it feels like punishment. Even though each lap is better than any therapist I’ve seen.
The ice is the only therapist I’ve ever needed.
My legs shake, my hands go numb, but I still don’t stop skating.
I don’t want easy. I want blood. I want to remember who I am, not who the whole world thinks I am.
The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look to know who it is.
I knew she’d show the second I sent the text last night.
Not a question. Not a request. Just a line I drew in frost.
And she crossed it just like we both knew she would. Because control looks good on her, but challenge looks better.
Power in motion. Precision in silk.
The sharp click of heels on concrete isn’t just an announcement. It’s a declaration.
There’s no hesitation in her stride. No apology for taking up space.
Sloane Carrington doesn’t knock because she doesn’t have to. She walks into rooms like they were built for her.
I don’t look directly at her, but I feel her. Like static before a storm. Like gravity shifting under my skates.
Skating a slow loop, controlling my breath, bleeding tension with each stride.
My body aches in a good way—worn out, emptied out—but my head? My head’s a goddamn war zone.
And it’s all because of the woman who I feel watching me from the other side of the glass.
I circle wide. Let her watch. Let her see I’m still here. Still skating. Still me, even if the league tried to write a different story.
I coast to a stop at center ice, chest heaving. I don’t move. Just close my eyes for one long second, trying to slow the riot inside me.
I turn and raise my gaze just in time for her eyes to meet mine.
And grind my molars so that my jaw doesn’t drop to the floor.
I thought the only thing the woman owned were crisp blouses and those skirts that hug her covers in a way that’s really not safe for the workplace.
But not tonight.
Tonight she’s in a slim black leather jacket that stops at her waist and black jeans. The black heeled boots make those already long legs look endless.
Those lush lips are set in a perfect, unreadable line.
Even though she doesn’t look made for ice rinks—especially local, gritty rinks like this one—she doesn’t look out of place either.
She looks expensive and hot as fucking hell.
And completely and utterly out of my league.
Yeah, like you had any chance with her anyway, Lasker. She’s not a puck bunny or a Hollywood starlet, jackass.
I glide toward her, slow, controlled. I let the silence stretch. I want to see what she does with it.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Her eyes track me like I’m a threat and a challenge all at once.
I lean my forearms on the boards, sweat running down the side of my face. “You always show up to random places this late at night? Or am I just lucky?”
She raises one brow. “You’re not lucky. I want my signature.” She pauses, tilting her head. “And I think you’re smart enough to know this is your only shot.”
I huff out a laugh, bitterness hot in my veins. “Oh, you think so?”
She steps closer, unfazed. “You called me, Lasker. If you really had other options, we wouldn’t be standing here.”
“I called you because I’m not ready to hang up my skates and pretend I’m fine with fading out.”
“You could’ve just said that.”
“Didn’t feel like explaining myself to someone who came into my apartment like she was delivering a goddamn subpoena.”
Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “Would it have helped if I’d brought donuts?”
“No. But it would've confused the hell out of me.”
Now, she smiles all the way. And fuck me, if I don’t like the way her green eyes light up.
But just as quickly, the smile fades and she watches me like she’s collecting data—reading body language and cataloging every scar.
I hate how good she is at reading me and we just met in person yesterday.
I also hate how much I want her to see something she likes.
I reach into my jacket and pull out the contract. The corners are curled from my hands. I slap it onto the top of the boards.
Her gaze drops. Lingers.
“I’ll sign it,” I say, quiet now. “But not because I believe in your pitch.”
She lifts her eyes back to mine, unreadable. “Why then?”
“Because I don’t know who I am without the game. And I’m not ready to figure that out.”
I pull the pen from my jacket, flip to the final page, and scrawl my name in thick black ink. My hand trembles at the end. Just a little.
But enough that the edges of anger whip through me.
“There.” I slide it toward her. “That’s what you came for, right?”
She doesn’t move. Just stares down at the signature like she’s trying to decide if it’s real. I watch her—jaw tight, shoulders square, fingers curling into the edge of the bench.
For a second, she looks like she’s holding the weight of the whole fucking league.
“I didn’t just come for the signature,” she says, voice lower now. “I came to see you in your element.”
I don’t answer. Because if I do, I’ll say too much. I’ll tell her I feel like I just signed away the only part of me that still made sense.
That Boston wasn’t just a team. It was a lifeline. A home I built from nothing.
A home that threw me away so easily.
And now?
Now I’m back at square one with fifteen years on my body, in a brand new city…
And with a woman who scares the shit out of me.
“You didn’t ask for a bonus. No guarantees. No media clause.” Her tone is careful, curious. “You’re either reckless or serious.”
I meet her eyes. “I’m going to play. Not to phone it in and cash a check.”
Her pupils shift. Just slightly. Like I caught her off guard. Like she wasn’t expecting plain honesty tonight.
She doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
I press my palm flat to the boards to steady myself. “This rink,” I say, eyes sweeping the empty seats, “I used to sneak in at night. When I was fourteen. Lights off, no music, just me and the cold. I’d skate until my legs gave out.”
A muscle shifts along her jaw. She doesn’t speak, but something softens around her eyes.
“Because out there,” I nod toward the doors, “everything was chaos. Home was a mess. School was worse. But here? Here I could disappear. Be something.”
Sloane doesn’t speak. She just listens. Like it matters. Like I matter.
I swallow hard. The burn in my throat isn’t from skating anymore.
“I thought I’d retire here,” I admit, voice barely audible. “Finish where I started. On my own terms.”
“You still can,” she says gently. “Different city. Different team. But still you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I’m starting to.” Her eyes don’t waver. “And I know you’re not done.”
That hits like a punch.
The air between us tightens, thickens until you could cut the tension with a knife.
There’s no one else in the rink, but I still feel the weight of this moment pressing in like heat under all the cold.
I step back from the boards, crossing my arms to keep from doing something stupid—like reaching for her.
Her perfume drifts between us, clean and expensive, with something sharper underneath.
Something that reminds me of pressure and control and sex and power.
“You really believe that?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t have flown to Boston if I didn’t.”
I nod once. “Then I guess we’re both gambling.”
She nods back. “High stakes make it interesting.”
The corner of my mouth lifts despite myself. “You always talk like this? Like we’re negotiating the fate of the universe?”
Her lips curve slightly. “Only when I am.”
The weight of the silence is heavy as we hold the stare between us.
“I signed that contract for me. Not for you or the team.”
She doesn’t blink. But her chest rises just a little deeper.
“I wasn’t sure if you would,” she says softly.
“I didn’t think I could.” I pause. “Until you looked at me like I still counted.”
Her breath catches. Not loud. Just enough that I feel it like a pull in my gut.
She swallows. Her throat moves just once.
The contract disappears into her bag. Her hands are steady now, but I don’t miss the way she exhales—like she’s been holding her breath all night.
Like my name on that page just gave her permission to breathe again.
She holds out her hand and gives me her best practiced smile.
“Welcome to the Atlanta Vipers, Maddox Lasker.”
Her tone is clean, crisp.
All business.
But the second I take her hand, it stops being about business.
Her fingers curl around mine—firm, steady. Warm.
My thumb grazes the inside of her palm before I even think to stop it.
Her skin is soft there. Sensitive.
That smile falls and her lips part, letting out a strangled gasp, but she doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The silence thickens, and my pulse pounds hard at the base of my throat. She doesn’t look at me, her stare staying on our joined hands.
Then she steps back, slowly, like she had to talk herself into it, and turns toward the tunnel, ready to leave.
The heat of her hand lingers on my skin like a ghost.
“Hey,” I call out.
She pauses. Looks back.
“You said earlier you don’t wait for odds. You make them.”
Her chin lifts. “That’s right.”
“Then don’t waste me.”
That freezes her. Just for a second. And then she nods, once. Solid. Like a promise.
“I don’t plan to,” she says. “But don’t waste yourself either.”
With that, she’s gone.
Her heels echo down the concrete hallway, fading fast, but I stay where I am—sweat drying on my skin, pulse still pounding, silence folding in around me like armor.
I stare out at the ice.
It’s still the same.
Still cold.
Still mine.
For the first time in a long damn time, it feels like something might be waiting on the other side of this.
I push off the boards and skate another lap.
Not for Boston.
Not even for her.
Just for me.
I told myself I didn’t care who I played for. Didn’t care where I landed.
But she looked at me like I might be more than what I’ve lost.
And fuck me if I don’t want to earn it.