Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sloane
There’s a moment, every season, when the ice goes quiet.
That hush between drills—skates stilled, sticks braced on knees, chests rising and falling in steam-laced clouds. It’s like the eye of a hurricane, all quiet waiting for the storm.
The moment hangs heavy above the rink while Maddox’s gaze locks with mine through three inches of glass and the echoing silence of empty seats.
Just me.
Just him.
My pulse drums in my throat, so loud I worry he can hear it from the ice. I drop my hand from the lapel of my blazer when I realize I’m fidgeting.
I can’t give away the fact that when he looks at me, the skin at the back of my neck prickles the way dry ice burns—slow, certain, and unforgettable.
Imperceptibly, he tips his chin. A move no one else seems to notice but me.
It’s becoming clear to me—much to my utter shame—I notice everything when it comes Maddox Lasker.
The curl of black tape at the end of his stick handle.
The shape of his mouth, unsmiling under the cage.
The way he holds still as if stillness is a weapon he learned how to sharpen.
I’m here to evaluate an asset. All of my assets. That is the official story.
Unofficially, I can’t stop looking at only one of them. The one wearing number thirty-three.
Spoiler alert: that’s not a good thing.
Maddox drops into his stance.
He’s not the fastest to move. He doesn’t need to be. He holds the crease like it belongs to him, weight balanced, glove relaxed, stick flat against the ice. Every shuffle is efficient.
Three sharp pushes and he’s square to the first shot, pads sealing the ice. The puck smacks into him and dies at his feet. He angles it away with a clean flick to the corner, already resetting for the next play.
The next time it’s a glove save, snatched so fast the shooter barely finishes his follow-through.
Then, a blocker deflection—puck steered harmlessly into the glass. He absorbs the slapshot to the chest like it’s nothing, the sound of impact echoing like a gunshot, and he doesn’t so much as flinch.
Why do I find that so fucking hot?
I blow out a breath to make myself remember to breathe.
Riley Hunt cruises through the crease, trying to screen him.
Maddox doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a look. He holds his ground, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the puck.
A player zips in from the blue line, tips off Riley’s stick at the last second, but Maddox snaps his pad down and swallows it whole.
He rises without hurry, drops the puck for his defense, and Riley might as well be invisible.
Controlled. Professional. Precise like a surgeon.
I should be taking the notes I need to defend my decision of signing Maddox so they don’t take the team away from me.
Especially given that he’s a veteran nearing the end of his career.
He looks good in conditioning. Reads plays early and stabilizes presence in chaos.
Instead, the heat sparking low in my belly is coiled tight, feeling anything but professional.
I grip the railing and let the cold steel bite into my palm in order to ground me. Inhaling deeply, I drag my focus back to the job I’m supposed to be doing.
Holt rotates them into rush drills. Two-on-ones. Three-on-twos.
Maddox reads each play like a map he’s already memorized. He challenges high, cuts angles early, drops into the butterfly when the shot comes and explodes back to his feet before the rebound can become a threat.
The puck clangs off his blocker, sails high off his shoulder, and sticks to his glove like a magnet.
He controls the play with an ease that makes my throat go dry.
The board wants numbers on Maddox. And not ones like what the rate of my pulse must be watching him play in the flesh.
We have his stats from the Boston years and as legendary as he is, they come with all the caveats and baggage from the last few years.
What we don’t have—and what I need to bring—is what it feels like when he’s on the ice with our guys.
The way the air shifts. The way the rookies sneak glances at him when they think no one’s watching.
The way Riley, all teeth and swagger, keeps drifting too close to the blue paint like a moth daring itself toward flame.
Speaking of Riley, he takes a breakaway, coming in fast, shoulder dropped, telegraphing top shelf.
Maddox waits, patient, then robs him with a glove snap so arrogant it borders on cruel.
I take a breath through my nose and smell cold, rubber, and a citrus cleaner that never quite kills the sweat.
Holt blows long and sharp. “Net-front battles!”
Assistants dump pucks into the corners, two at a time. Defense crashes back, forwards crash the crease. Screens, tips, rebounds…it’s pure madness on the ice.
Riley plants himself square in front, hacking for sight lines. Maddox slams his right pad flat to the ice, leaning hard into the post, the other leg braced up to block high. It’s a stance that eats pucks alive if done right—no daylight, no room, no mercy.
The puck rockets toward the net, but Maddox kicks it out with his pad and uses his hips to lever Riley just far enough off balance that the kid hacks air.
Not dirty, just surgical precision.
Riley stumbles, recovers, and spits out something I can’t hear.
But as much as he’s trying to rile him up, Maddox doesn’t bite.
He’s already reset, eyes following the next pass.
The man’s got leadership qualities in spades. There’s no wasted motions or violence. He keeps it all contained until the exact second it needs to be used.
Something loosens inside my chest and then tightens again. I uncurl my fingers from the rail and rub the indentations with my thumb.
“Control,” my father used to say. “Talent is for show. Control wins the room.”
That was his gospel, and I believed it.
Still do.
But after watching Maddox, I’m beginning to think control can also be something else—it can be lethal, hot, and with a promise waiting for a trigger.
Holt shifts them into a half-ice scrimmage. It’s full of quick changes, and the tempo is nasty.
It’s the kind of session that looks like chaos to civilians but is pure math in motion. Maddox is the constant that keeps the equation balanced.
He calls short, sharp cues—pointing, tapping his stick, steering traffic with a twitch of his glove.
Our defense collapses tighter, lanes close. He gets three shots in five seconds, chest, pad, glove, then freezes the puck like he’s ending an argument.
I can sell that to the board.
I can also feel my pulse in places I shouldn’t.
As practice continues, players shout and slam. Coaches bark out orders and tips. Trainers shuttle water and Gatorade.
Maddox peels a glove off, flexes his hand, scar flashing. He looks up again. Not long. Just enough.
My breath hitches, my body answering in ways that make me want to step back and give myself a lecture.
You have to remain professional, polished, untouchable.
I adjust the cuff of my shirt so the French seam lines perfectly with the hem of my skirt. I imagine I can smooth the thrum under my skin into a flatline.
I imagine I can smooth out anything that keeps me from being anything but the owner of the Atlanta Vipers.
Holt’s final whistle cuts the air, indicating the end of practice. Helmets lift and players laugh, shoving at each other as they head into the locker room.
Maddox doesn’t celebrate. He pulls his mask free and collects his gear like a soldier expecting the war to go on without him.
But just before he leaves the ice, he looks up.
For a second, I swear the glass isn’t there. The distance collapses into a line of heat that runs from his eyes to my sternum and all the way down between my legs, where my thighs clench of their own volition.
It feels like a dare.
It feels like an answer to a question I don’t let myself ask.
I force my hand to release the railing. The dents in my palm mirror the place between my ribs that hurts when I breathe too hard.
My phone buzzes. I tug it free, still watching the ice.
Tessa: Sierra’s looking for you. She needs you in the tunnel in five. You’ve got interviews in ten. Where are you?
I swallow the instinct to text back hiding in plain sight.
Me: On my way.
Shoving my phone into my blazer pocket, I take one last look, but Maddox is gone.
While disappointment hits the pit of my stomach, I smooth my hair like my Aunt Sara used to do before she pushed me into a room full of people who would be delighted to see me fail.
Smile, shoulders back, and remember they can smell fear, darling.
I straighten my spine and head out of the observation deck to face the hell known as Media Day.
Sierra meets me at the mouth of the press room, her bun tight with not a hair out of place.
But licks of panic shine in her eyes.
“They moved the locals up,” she whispers, shoving a schedule at me. “Fox 5 is already setting up, and Channel 2 is short a mic, and—” She swallows, resets. “Where do you want Jace first?”
“Jace goes last,” I say. “Start with Finn. Give Channel 2 his special brand of charm so they feel special. Keep Riley moving—if he stalls, pair him with Logan. Keep Cal with you. He needs a handhold.”
“And Lasker?”
My tongue touches my teeth. Heat flares low. “He’s with me.”
She crosses his name off her list. “Copy.”
My phone buzzes again.
Tessa: Board liaison in the hall. Wants a word before you hit the podium. Dean wants a revised quote for the release. Where do you want the hit to land?
Me: Tell Dean we hold the quote ’til after the first interviews. I want real tape to pull language from. And tell the liaison he gets five minutes in the green hall after Finn’s spot. If he wants more, he can schedule it like everyone else.
I angle myself into the press room doorway. There’s heat from all the lights and hungry cameras.
Dean slides up beside me. “You ready for it?”
A glance over at him and lift my chin. “I’m a Carrington, Dean. I was born ready.”
He purses his lips as I step up to the podium where my notes are stacked.
The weight of eyes on me is stifling, but I straighten my spine and let the mask drop.
“Good afternoon,” I say, and the room hushes.
Bring it on, vultures.