Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Sloane
Two days.
That’s how long it’s been since Maddox Lasker signed his name on the dotted line.
Two days since I stood in an empty rink in Boston and watched a man unravel in front of me—and still choose to stay in the fight.
Two days since I flew home with his signature on my contract and something far more dangerous lodged behind my ribs.
He’s under my skin.
And I hate how much I feel it.
A low hum of anticipation threads through my bones as I move through the dark, empty tunnel leading out to the arena, my heels echoing—sharp, deliberate, louder than they should be. The air smells faintly of concrete dust and last night’s resin.
I slow at the tunnel’s mouth, where Dean is already waiting.
He leans against the wall like he owns it, posture relaxed, tie loosened just enough to feign ease. His phone is in hand, attention elsewhere.
Smoothing my jacket, I square my shoulders and let the mask settle into place.
Sloane Carrington, CEO of the Atlanta Vipers NEHL Hockey Team.
Untouchable.
The second I step into his periphery, I feel his gaze shift. A flicker of satisfaction there. He likes being ahead of me. Likes the idea of me chasing him, even though I’m technically his boss.
I don’t give him the pleasure.
“Punctual, as always,” Dean says, still not looking up.
“You called this meeting. I showed.”
He pushes off the wall and walks away, expecting me to follow. The shitty part is, I have to.
We head to the conference suite. At the door, he gestures for me to enter.
Raising my chin, I don’t pause, don’t flinch. I walk past him like he doesn’t matter, even though his eyes linger a beat too long as I pass.
Inside, the air is stale and cold. Deliberately so.
The table between us is bare except for one folder dead center, like a landmine. Two leather chairs. No drinks. No pretense. Just a war waiting to be waged.
I sit, crossing one leg over the other, waiting for him to close the door.
He doesn’t sit. Just leans on the edge of the table, wedding band glinting under the fluorescents. Objectively, Dean is a handsome man. But if he’s anything like he is at the office, I pity the poor woman wearing the matching band.
His expression is smooth, his eyes calculating.
“You’ve made quite the splash. Bold move to go to Boston.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “Congratulations.”
“We needed a goalie. I got us one.”
“Lasker’s a risk.”
I match his gaze, refusing to blink. “He’ll win games. He commands respect on the ice.”
“You didn’t run it by the board.”
“No. I didn’t.” My voice stays even. “And before you start, I know exactly what Section Four says. I also know what Section Three says about competitive benchmarks, and Lasker gives us the best shot at hitting them.”
“Which means you also know you triggered the Legacy Clause.”
“I ran the numbers,” I say. “I knew it would trigger oversight. I also knew we’d make the playoffs with him on the roster.”
He slides the folder toward me. The sound is soft, but it lands like a gavel. Inside, I already know what’s waiting—the words Legacy Oversight Provision, Section 6, staring back in neat black font.
“You broke both the dollar cap and the term limit,” Dean says. “And Lasker’s disciplinary history? That’s reputational risk. Two violations in one move.”
My stomach knots, not from surprise but from the reminder of what a second trigger in the next eighteen months would mean—reduced control, maybe even forced sale.
I knew all that when I signed him. I just didn’t expect them to start sharpening the knives this fast.
“The Oversight Committee will want a full review,” he says. “You’ll present your rationale next week. If the acquisition doesn’t meet our return metrics, your role as controlling owner becomes…conditional.”
My spine goes rigid. I don’t move. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s governance,” he says, smiling faintly. “Exactly the kind your father wanted in place.”
“It’s sabotage.”
Dean doesn’t flinch. “It’s policy.”
My stomach turns, a slow, heavy roll. I grip my knees under the table so hard my nails leave half-moons in my skin.
“You think I didn’t run the numbers?” I ask, voice even.
“I think you’re making emotional decisions.” His tone is mild. Patronizing. “And emotional decisions get people fired.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from exploding.
He wants a reaction. A crack. Something he can take back to the board to paint me as reckless.
Too young. Too green. Too female.
I give him nothing.
“I vetted him. Thoroughly.”
Dean tilts his head. “That’s what worries me, Sloane. You think research is the same as risk management.”
My cheeks flush, heat prickling under my skin. I imagine my father’s watchful eyes behind Dean’s. The pressure at my temples builds—like if I let myself blink too long, the veneer will crack.
“The city wanted a cornerstone,” I say. “I gave them one. I’m not afraid of risk to get what we need.”
His mouth curves, not a smile but something colder. “You should be. The board is, at least. They don’t like surprises. Especially not from you.”
There it is. The thing he’s been circling all along. Not from me.
Dean crosses behind me, slow and deliberate, circling like he smells blood. His cologne hits like bleach—too sharp, too clean.
“Tell me,” he says softly, “is this really about building the franchise? Or is it about proving you’re more than your father’s shadow?”
I stiffen. That line isn’t just strategy—it’s personal. And it lands like a blade.
The image of Maddox flashes—sweat slicking his skin, eyes daring me to flinch.
You ever feel like you’re not enough?
I grit my teeth.
“If you have a concern about my leadership,” I say, turning the chair to face him, head held high, “take it to the board.”
Dean meets my gaze, satisfied he’s pushed my buttons. “They’re already watching.”
He walks out without another word, leaving the room colder than when he entered.
The door clicks shut behind him, soft as a threat.
I don’t move. Not at first.
With my hands shaking, I just sit there, staring at the folder like it might bite.
Then I exhale. Once. Twice. Three times.
When I finally stand, my legs are unsteady. I gather the folder and force my spine straight, letting the soles of my shoes ring sharp against the hardwood as I leave.
I will not be seen unraveling.
Not by Dean. Not by anyone.
The elevator ride is quiet. My reflection stares back from the mirrored walls—perfect hair, flawless makeup, face locked down. But my stomach churns, my chest tight with something too big to contain.
I make it to my office before the first tear threatens. Once inside my sanctuary, I shut the door with more force than necessary and lean against it, eyes closed.
The ache in my chest is a live wire. I want to scream. Or cry. Or break something, anything, just to feel the aftermath.
I sink into my chair like my bones forgot how to hold me. The darkness and all its friends presses in, thick and heavy.
Turning on the desk lamp, low and warm, I boot up my laptop with hands that still tremble.
There’s too much to do. Too much to prove. Too much riding on one signature I forced out of a man who looks at me like I’m both a threat and a promise.
Opening a fresh PowerPoint, I get down to work, the anxiety ebbing from my body as I type.
Asset Analysis: Lasker, M.
The cursor blinks at me for half a second before I start typing headers with ruthless precision:
Strengths.
Weaknesses.
Statistical Impact.
Integration Risk.
Reputation Risk.
I pull up his player profile.
Maddox Lasker.
His headshot first comes up first, and I can’t deny the hit to my bloodstream when I see him.
Much to my utter dismay, if this is how addicts feel with their drug of choice, I can see why it’s so hard to stop.
Jaw like a blade, eyes so electric blue and mysterious at the same time, they seem unreal. If I hadn’t seen them first-hand, I’d think there was some doctoring of his photo.
His hair is damp and tousled as if he’s just come off the ice and the sight of him on my screen is a physical thing that I can’t control.
My chest contracts, lungs fluttering against the cage of my ribs, and there’s a heaviness at the base of my throat.
All of which only serves to piss me off.
These feelings are raw and mighty fucking inconvenient.
I scroll through his stats, searching for solace in numbers—goals per game, face-off percentage, penalty minutes, power play conversions.
The data is clean, almost reassuring in its objectivity. But every note I type brings him closer, until I’m no longer analyzing a player but the tremor he set loose in me.
I add another bullet:
Unknown variable: Potential for disruption.
My finger hovers over the delete key, but I leave it. I have to name what I can’t control.
A photo lingers in the preview—him in a corridor after practice, sweat-dark hair, mouth set in a line, eyes full of everything he never says.
I drag it into the presentation, just for reference, but my hand shakes.
Staring at the image, I try to reduce him to a file, a risk, an asset. It’s what a good owner does.
That’s what my father would have done.
But all I can feel is the pounding in my chest, the electric burn under my skin, and the certainty that I’ve let something wild through the gates.
This was supposed to be a solution. Not a complication.
And still, I can’t look away.
The buzz of my phone breaks the staring contest I’m having with my monitor.
Griffin.
I smile faintly. Of course.
How the hell my cousin knows I’m unraveling, I’ll never know but he always seems to know.
I stare at his name on the phone screen, letting it ring until it goes dark.
If I answer right now, I’ll break.
And if I break, I’ll lose this round.
I don’t have the luxury of losing any round at this point.
Instead, I open a new blank PowerPoint. I fill in slide after slide with numbers, charts, graphs. Projections. Market impact. Growth potential.
It’s all my armor.
I type faster, harder to the point my fingertips become sore. But I’m trying to drown the thoughts pressing in from every side.
Maddox.
Dean.
My father.
The contract is signed, but nothing’s settled.
Maddox is a fuse waiting to be lit.
Dean’s circling like a shark.
And my father, who has the talent of controlling everything I do from the fancy ass casket I put him in.
“You wanted a legacy, Dad? I’m going to give you a fucking legacy despite your rules.”
I wish that declaration echoing off the silent walls made me feel better.
But it doesn’t.
My eyes burn. My chest aches.
I close the laptop before I throw it out the window.
I’m sure Dean and the board would have all kinds of things to say if someone found my laptop on the immaculate lawn outside.
Blowing out a breath, I give myself a mental pat on the back.
I’m still here. And so is my laptop.
I’m alone. Angry. Afraid.
But unbroken.
For now.