Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Sloane
The glass doors to my office click shut behind me, the hush almost too heavy after the chaos of media day.
I drop my bag on the desk and flop down into my chair, kicking off my heels in the process.
The relief is immediate but dangerous.
Because without them, without the polish, it feels like armor slipping away.
The room smells faintly of paper and coffee gone cold. My body hums with leftover adrenaline from hours of smiling, nodding, and spinning stories for the press.
And all of my key players showed the press who they are today. Some of that good, some bad.
Riley thrived like a show pony, every grin landing with the cameras like he’d been born under a spotlight.
Finn cracked jokes loud enough to echo, half the reporters eating it up, the other half already wondering what trouble he’ll cause by Christmas.
Eli, quieter at the edge of the scrum and steady as stone, gave nothing flashy but rolled his eyes at the Riley and Finn comedy show.
I sigh, closing my eyes for a moment. Riley and Finn could be a media nightmare if I don’t watch them closely.
Especially Finn. He’s loud and reckless, but talented.
And he knows it.
One of them who doesn’t know it, though, is my rookie. Cal stumbling through his first microphone gauntlet, wide-eyed and raw, but earnest enough to make them forgive him.
Maybe I should pair him up with Logan. A buddy system so to speak. Logan’s my most polished PR guy on the team. Every answer he gives is clean, measured, and rehearsed.
I tap my finger on my chin. Eh, maybe Logan is too polished for the rookie right now.
What am I thinking? Beau is the perfect mentor for Cal, since they’re both wingers. And Beau’s got that easy, approachable warmth.
Single dad to a little girl, the cameras soft around him because they see it too—that quiet, dependable gravity that makes people lean in.
Beau’s also one of my older players, kind of a co-captain so to speak to Jace.
I smile thinking of the way Jace looms like the anchor he is, older, grimmer with his presence alone and commanding respect even without a word.
Reminds me of another older, grimmer presence.
Maddox.
Just saying his name in my head makes me…well…stupid.
He stonewalled most of the reporters questions, his jaw looking like it was carved from granite.
It’s like he didn’t realize that the less he gave, the more they wanted. Every camera was hungry for more because he gave them nothing at all.
And that didn’t help my case with the board.
I press my palms to the desk, trying to frame it as a win. It was controlled chaos, but the key word is “controlled.”
Except there’s nothing controlled about the way my body betrays me, every nerve firing hot at the memory of our collision in the corridor.
I can still feel the steady weight of Maddox’s hands when he caught me. The heat of his body bled through the thin fabric of my sleeve.
His voice low and sharp as the blades he skates on: You enjoy pulling my strings up there?
The worst part of it all? How much I had enjoyed being pressed against that rock-hard body that vibrated under his suit.
I shake my head, hard, even while my breath stutters.
Nope. No, no, no.
I’m the owner. His boss.
Not some random puck bunny in his orbit.
Not someone’s risk.
But my pulse still trips over itself, proof that control is an illusion I can’t quite grip tonight.
I square my shoulders. “Time to get back to work, Carrington,” I say to the room before picking up my phone and opening the note app.
“Have chat with Holt and Beau about mentoring Cal,” I recite out loud while I type.
And just as I start to type more, my phone buzzes in my hand.
Griff calling…
I groan and mock banging my head on my desk.
“Don’t tell me you actually watched the circus,” I say as I answer.
He laughs, the sound warm, too knowing. “Watched? Cousin, I’ve got the clips on repeat. Your goalie looks like he wanted to strangle every reporter in the room. Great optics, by the way.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Maddox isn’t here to charm reporters. He’s here to win games.”
“Mmhmm.” Griffin stretches the sound out like he’s winding me up. “You sure about that? Looked a lot like a man cashing one last paycheck to me.”
The words prick, sharper than I want them to. “He’s worth it,” I say, too fast. “He’s exactly what this team needs.”
“Whoa. Defensive much?”
“I made a choice. I’ll stand by it.” My voice is clipped steel, but it wavers underneath.
He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, but lets it sit, lets me squirm against it. “Hey. I’m just saying—eyes are on you, Sloane. They’re waiting for you to slip. And you know as well as I do, one stumble and they’ll tear you apart.”
I lean back, eyes on the stretch of trees shrouded in night. No movement, no mercy—just a weight that settles over me the way expectation always does. “Tell me something I don’t know, oh sage one.”
He chuckles, but it’s softer now. “Okay, how about this. I’ve got your back, always. Even if you decide to gamble on broody goalies who look like they eat reporters for breakfast.”
My throat tightens. “I know you do. And I appreciate it.”
But even in his reassurance, there’s something else—an edge he can’t hide.
Like he suspects more is brewing under the surface than I’ll ever admit.
And the worst part?
He’s not wrong.
I clear my throat, forcing my voice lighter. “Enough about my goalie. How did your media day go?”
He groans. “Don’t remind me. Half the questions were about last season, the other half about whether I plan to shave my beard. Riveting stuff.”
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “Better you than me.”
“Debatable,” he mutters. Then his voice softens. “Mom asked about you today. She worries, you know.”
My chest tightens in a different way. Aunt Sara—always carrying more than her share, always steady when the rest of us splintered. “Tell her I’m fine,” I say. “And that I’ll call soon.”
“You’d better.” Griffin’s tone carries the weight of both a tease and a warning. “Mom’s been on my ass about you calling her.”
“Why doesn’t she just call me herself?”
He scoffs, “Two reasons, Lo. One, we’re talking about Sara Ashford here. She doesn’t do the calling. And two, if you do her like you do me, it’d take eleven billion times to call before you answer.”
Griffin’s use of the nickname he gave me when we were kids and he couldn’t say my whole name causes a thickness in my throat.
I miss those times.
“Geez, drama much? How do you get any hockey played if you’re calling me eleven billion times?”
He chuckles. “Smartass.”
“Learned from the best.”
“Damn right you did.”
I sigh. “But okay, you have a point. And I will call her. I promise.”
We say our love yous and goodbyes and when the call ends, silence swallows the office again.
I straighten in my chair and pull the keyboard closer to me. My fingers hover over the keyboard, but the ping of my inbox stops me from typing.
Subject line: Debrief: Media Day Performance – Tomorrow 9AM.
Dean.
Of course.
The wording is clinical, polite on the surface, but I know better.
It’s a power play. His way of reminding me he’s still in the game, still watching for cracks.
My stomach knots. My jaw locks. “Predictable,” I mutter, voice sharp in the quiet.
He’ll frame it as strategy, as accountability. But what it is—what it always is—is a test.
And tomorrow morning, I’ll have to walk into his office and remind him who actually runs this team.
And that in spite of the leash my father put on me from the grave, I’m the one making the decisions here.
The dread coils low in my gut anyway.
I lean back and close my eyes against the light of the monitors.
Unbidden, Maddox’s face fills the darkness behind my lids.
But it’s not his press conference glare or the goalie’s mask of indifference.
It’s the man in the hallway, heat and shadow, closing the space between us until I could barely breathe.
My chest tightens. I hate that it felt good.
This is dangerous. Attraction is risk.
And risk gets exploited.
I bite the inside of my cheek, hard, chasing pain to push the thought away.
I am not that woman. I am the owner of this franchise. I don’t blur lines.
But the memory clings, stubborn and electric as static under my skin.
And the truth, the one I won’t say out loud…
Maddox unsettles me.
Not because he’s a mistake I can’t afford,—but because some traitorous part of me doesn’t want to shove the mistake aside.
When I open my eyes, I pull up the PowerPoint I’ve started called “The Lasker Dossier.”
I click through the slides, crisp bullet points summarizing the day.
Riley: Chaotic, media gold.
Finn: Unpredictable, likable, but could possibly be media nightmare. Keep eye on.
Cal: Green but salvageable with the right mentorship.
Logan: Prince of PR
Beau: Warm, approachable, possible mentor for Cal?
Eli: Quiet protector
Jace: Stoic, anchor of team.
Maddox: Volatile, magnetic.
My chest tightens, a pulse of something I don’t want to name.
I click to a blank slide, fingers hovering over the keys. Then I type.
Internal Risk Assessment – Sloane Carrington
Boundary slippage.
Emotional distraction.
Loss of control = unacceptable risk.
The cursor blinks at me, an accusation in a flashing vertical line.
I’m not supposed to be on the list.
I’m not supposed to be a variable.
But here I am, typing myself into the problem like I’m just another player who might crack under pressure.
My pulse jumps so hard I press a hand flat against my sternum.
Control masquerading as strategy. That’s all this is.
If I write it down, maybe it’ll stay in the box. You’re suppose to journal and all that, right? To get all of this out of your head?
Isn’t that what they say?
But the box already feels too small.
I snap the laptop shut. The sound echoes, too loud in the empty office.
Internal Risk: Sloane Carrington.
The words loop in my head, sharper than any headline, sharper than Dean’s condescension.
I lean back, exhaustion pressing me into the chair, but my pulse won’t slow.
It’s still there, the memory of Maddox’s hand steadying me, the way he didn’t back down.
The heat I can’t seem to shake.
Control, I remind myself. Always control.
But the echo is louder.
Boundary slippage.
Emotional distraction.
Loss of control.
I laugh, low and humorless. “This can’t be good.”
The office doesn’t argue. Just shadows pooling deeper, the hum of the city pressing against the glass.
I rise, heels dangling from my hand, and walk toward the door. Each step measured, hard enough to sound like steel.
But the words follow me anyway, stitched into my skin.
Internal Risk: Sloane Carrington.
I glance over at the framed jersey on the wall and for a split second, I swear I smell leather like my father’s standing right here.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t know if I’m the one holding the leash—or if it’s already slipped from my hand.