Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maddox
The locker room stinks of sweat and wet fabric—normal after practice, but heavier today, like the air knows we’re about to be paraded around.
The kind of smell that clings, no matter how much body wash the team leaves in the stalls.
Guys peel off gear fast, the scrape of Velcro, the slap of pads hitting the floor. Steam’s already curling from the showers at the back.
Nobody wants to look like they just crawled out of a drill line when the cameras start flashing.
I tug my mask free, drop it hard on the bench, and strip down slow. My shoulders ache from the morning skate, the kind of burn I welcome.
Out there I’m in control. In here?
It’s a fucking circus.
Riley’s voice cuts through the noise, loud enough to carry over the hiss of showers and the clang of lockers.
He’s already half-wrapped in a towel, talking big like he’s the captain instead of just a kid with a dangerous smile.
Finn eggs him on, pulling rookie Cal into their orbit like it’s some goddamn comedy act.
Laughter echoes off the tile. Cameras aren’t even in the room yet, and Riley’s performing.
I shower fast, just hot enough to loosen my neck. No lingering. No small talk.
By the time I step out, the handlers are setting up lights and banners in the hallway. Jerseys are laid out clean, crisp, like we’re mannequins instead of men.
Riley’s first to throw his on, hair still damp but styled with his hands like he’s about to do a cologne ad. Finn follows, tugging his jersey over his head and winking at one of the assistants, earning a giggle.
I pull mine on slow, every movement deliberate, the weight of the Vipers logo sitting heavy on my chest.
It’s supposed to mean something. For me, it’s a reminder of how fast a logo can turn into a target.
The photo station is just outside, all blinding lights and cameras clicking nonstop. Riley struts into the spotlight like he owns it, flashing that smirk he probably practices in the mirror.
When its Finn’s turn, he hams it up—stick raised like a sword, a flex that makes the handlers laugh.
When they wave me forward, my jaw’s already tight. They want intensity. They want something they can plaster on a billboard.
I give them flat eyes. Nothing else.
“Little more energy, Mr. Lasker,” the photographer quips.
I bare my teeth—but not in a smile. More like a wolf giving a warning before he bites. The flash goes off, and for a second I see them flinch.
That’s all they get.
The next station has video rolling. “Say your name, position, and something fun about yourself.”
Fun about myself?
Jesus Christ.
“Maddox Lasker. Goalie. Fun’s not part of the job.”
The videographers exchange a look and then shuffle me quickly down the line like I’m radioactive.
Which is fine by me if it gets me out of this shit show faster.
I’ve always hated media day. The cameras and platitudes they want aren’t my stage, the crease on the ice rink is.
Out here, it’s all just a bunch of bullshit.
In the large ballroom where the interviews take place, the lights are hotter here than on the ice. White, unrelenting, like they’re designed to bake answers out of you.
Reporters crowd in, microphones thrust like weapons.
“Thirty-nine now, Maddox—how much gas you think you’ve got left in the tank?”
“Big contract for a guy your age. Last paycheck?”
“Atlanta’s banking their first season on you. Think you’ve still got it?”
The words slide in sharp, designed to draw blood. I keep my answers clipped, neutral, just this side of polite.
“Ask me in April. I’m here to play, not talk.”
I level my stare with the guy who brought up my age. “And we’ll see what’s left in the tank when the games matter.”
“Boston ended messy, didn’t it? Care to comment?”
“Is it true about the—”
The word incident floats between two of them, hushed, barbed. My pulse spikes, and heat licks up the back of my neck. I lock down my jaw so tight my teeth ache.
I won’t give them anything. Not a twitch, not a flinch. My face stays stone, my voice flat. “Next question.”
The urge to shove past them thrums in my chest, sharp and dangerous. But walking out would hand them the story they want.
And I’ve given enough headlines to the league already.
So I lean back into the posture I know best—stillness, patience, control.
Just like in the crease.
Let them fire shot after shot. Let them burn themselves out against the wall I’ve built.
I won’t back down from what I did in Boston, but in order to keep my career intact, I have to move on from it.
I wish these fuckers would move on too.
Behind me, Riley’s laugh cuts through the noise. Bright, cocky, smooth. He’s working the cameras like it’s his job, grinning for every mic shoved his way.
Yep, Peacock is the perfect name for him.
Finn cracks a joke nearby, and the room ripples with laughter.
The rookies love it. The media eats it up.
I grit my teeth harder, because the contrast is too loud to ignore. Guys like Riley and Finn shine under the spotlight.
I survive it.
And survival is all I’ve got left to give.
The questions taper off, and handlers shuffle the herd. Players rotate in and out, cameras swinging to catch every angle, every sound bite they can milk.
When it’s Finn’s turn, he takes center stage and leans into the mic, eyes wide, cracking a one-liner about his hair being “game-ready, even if the rest of me isn’t.”
The room bursts out laughing. Reporters lap it up like he’s the golden retriever of hockey—chaotic, impossible to stay mad at.
Good for the team, even if it makes me look like the asshole.
I don’t give a shit. I’ve never been the guy to make the team look good in the media.
The only time the media loves me is when I’m helping the team rack up playoff cups.
And that’s fine by me.
Well, most of the time it’s fine. Every so often though, there’s a dull weight in my chest, and I wish things were different for me.
But they never have been and—at this point—they never will be.
The rookies shuffle in behind him, and I catch Cal’s voice falter.
He stumbles over a stat, his face reddens, and his shoulders fold inward like he’s about to implode under the lights.
I drift just close enough to be in the frame, but not enough to draw notice.
“Breathe, rookie” I murmur under my breath, low enough only he hears.
His chest expands, shaky but deeper. He resets and answers the next question cleaner. No one notices the way his spine straightens, but I do.
This is the part no one tells you about when you’re working your way up to the pros.
Not only do you protect the net, but you steady the kid. You make sure the cracks don’t spread.
That’s the job, even if no one calls it that.
Even if it gets you fired.
Finn claps Cal on the back with a grin, pulling the spotlight away, and the tension breaks. The cameras eat it up—chaos and charm playing better than silence and steel ever will.
I shift my gaze across the chaos and find her.
Sloane Carrington.
Not on camera, not taking questions. Just there in the background, directing traffic like a general disguised in a tailored blazer.
Controlled steel, every movement precise. She tilts her head, sends one rookie right, waves another forward, corrals Finn without raising her voice.
She never looks my way, but I feel it anyway.
The gravity of her being in my orbit, pulling without even getting close to touching.
A presence that makes the room move sharper, cleaner.
I drag my eyes away before anyone catches me staring.
Cameras flash again, and the circus rolls on.
The stage lights hit like a cross-check. Too hot, too blinding. Rows of microphones lean forward like weapons, reporters stacked shoulder to shoulder, their pens and cameras twitching for blood.
I drop into the chair, suit jacket stiff across my shoulders. The name placard in front of me reads like a challenge: Maddox Lasker Goaltender.
The first question cracks out.
“Thirty-nine. That’s ancient in this league. You think you got what it takes to last all season?”
My jaw tightens. “Ask me in April.”
Laughter ripples, sharp-edged. Another voice jumps in.
“Last season was your worst statistically since your rookie year. Why would Atlanta take a risk?”
The murmurs sharpen. More questions slam down—Boston, the suspension, the “incident” no one will drop.
My pulse spikes, heat climbing my throat. Every instinct screams to stand, to walk, to leave them with nothing but the scrape of my chair.
And then she’s there.
Sloane Carrington slides into the seat beside me like she owns the oxygen.
She’s calm, precise, and doesn’t flinch at the barrage of questions that are judging both my worth and her decisions.
“What Atlanta gains,” she says, voice cutting clean as a skate blade, “is one of the most experienced goaltenders in the league. A man who knows pressure, who’s stood in the crease when the odds were stacked, and who still came out swinging. This city doesn’t need safe. It needs strong.”
The room stills. Reporters pivot, pens flying to catch her words.
She redirects the next question before I can open my mouth, slices the angle on another, and reframes every strike until it sounds like strategy instead of damage control.
It should piss me off.
And it does.
Every muscle in me bristles at being handled, leashed. I don’t need her smoothing edges I sharpened on purpose. But watching her work—unflinching, unbreakable—forces something else out of me.
Respect.
The press pushes harder, trying to wedge daylight between us.
“Are you worried, Ms. Carrington, about managing a player with…temperament issues?”
Her smile is a blade. “The only folks who should be worried are the opponents underestimating him.”
Heat coils low in my chest.
Not pride. Not exactly.
Something sharper, messier.
Because the whole time she’s steadying this ship, her presence pins me harder than the questions ever could.
Control against control.
And under it,—sparks neither of us will name.
The press conference ends in a blur of flashes and questions I don’t bother remembering. My jaw aches from clenching, my palms damp inside the cuffs of my suit.
I shove back from the table, cutting through the bodies, and slip down a side corridor just to breathe.
Thank fuck it’s empty out here.
Pacing back and forth in the hallway, I blow out a series of short breaths to battle back the anxiety nipping at my throat.
A couple moments later, my heartbeat returns to normal, and I let the stoic mask slide back into place just before opening the door…
And slamming straight into Sloane.
A muffled “oof” comes from her, and my hands shoot out to grip her elbows to keep her upright.
But touching her is a bad, bad idea.
She’s cool steel. Untouchable with her crisp lines, sharp heels, and not a hair out of place.
She looks like the lights don’t touch her,—like she eats fire for breakfast and calls it protein.
I’m all sweat-slick under my jacket, heat crawling down my spine.
And I feel about a million years old standing next to her.
“Watch where you’re going, Sloane.”
My tone is sharp, even condescending, but I can’t let her see any of my cracks.
Her eyes narrow when they meet mine, and she pulls out of my grasp.
“Me? You opened the door like you were trying to pull it off the hinges.”
She smooths down her blazer and lifts her chin, somehow staring down at me even though I’ve got several inches on her.
And that little defiant move makes me want to shove her against the wall and kiss that red war paint off her full lips.
“You enjoy pulling my strings up there?” The words scrape low, half snarl, half something else.
Her eyes flash, quick as a whip. “Someone has to keep you from strangling yourself with them.”
I step closer, not even meaning to, until the space between us is measured in heartbeats.
The faint edge of her perfume threads the air, and it’s like it was custom made for her. Clean, sharp, and nothing soft about it.
My chest tightens against the heat rolling off her, the way she stands her ground instead of backing down.
“You think you’ve got me leashed?” I murmur. “Careful, old dogs like me bite.”
Her chin tips up, mouth curving in a blade of a smile. “Good thing I don’t scare easy.”
The air snaps, charged enough to burn. My pulse drums in my ears, her gaze locked on mine like neither of us is willing to give the first inch.
Footsteps echo down the hall, and the spell fractures.
With one last look, she turns on her heels and walks away, each step deliberate, leaving me strung tight.
Her heels fade, but the scent of her lingers, sharp as ozone after a storm.
My hands flex at my sides, restless, like I need something to hold onto.
She thinks she’s the one pulling strings. Maybe she is.
But the fire under my ribs says otherwise.
I drag in a breath that doesn’t cool a damn thing.
Practice didn’t drain me. The cameras didn’t either.
She did.
And I hate that I want more.