Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sloane
The door to my condo shuts with a quiet click that feels louder than the entire hospital had been.
For a moment, I just stand there in the foyer, heels still on, blazer still buttoned, handbag still slung heavy against my shoulder like I might have to run back out and face it all again.
But then my body reminds me I’m not made of steel, no matter how hard I pretend.
I drop my bag and kick off my shoes. The relief is instant and dangerous. Home is the only place I let the Carrington armor fall like a house of cards.
The silence wraps around me, but it doesn’t soothe. My pulse is still too high, like my body hasn’t caught up to the fact the cameras are gone.
Like it hasn’t realized I’m alone.
What am I saying? It’s not the cameras keeping me wired.
I lean back against the wall, close my eyes, and see him.
Maddox.
Not scowling. Not stonewalling. Not the man I’ve been fighting since the second he stepped into my orbit.
Smiling.
God, that smile. Raw, unguarded, like the boy with the book had cracked something open in him no one else could touch.
It should’ve been gold for PR, and it was. The press will spin it into the perfect redemption clip.
Dean will finally shut his smug mouth when he sees the tape. The board will see strategy paying off.
But for me?
It wasn’t PR. It was something else entirely.
It was the way he crouched awkwardly in that black suit, knees bent like it cost him something to lower himself to their level, and still did it.
The way he let that boy touch his hand like it was something they did every single day.
The way his voice shifted—rough edges sanded just enough to coax laughter from a child who has every right not to remember what laughing feels like.
And when he smiled—really smiled—something hot and reckless twisted inside my chest.
And let’s not even talk about the near kiss in the elevator.
I haven’t been this fucking turned on in longer than I care to remember, and the man didn’t even lay a finger on me.
Pushing off the wall, I cross into the living room, shedding my jacket as I go.
My skin still buzzes like I’m standing too close to a live wire.
This is not how I should feel about one of my players.
This is not how I should feel about anyone. I have a team to run and a board to please just to prove I can handle something that’s already mine.
I sink onto the couch, hair tumbling loose when I tug out the pins. My reflection in the black screen of the TV catches me off guard—eyes wide, lips parted, chest still rising like I ran here instead of riding the elevator.
Then again, that elevator ride has my pulse dancing like it’s my job.
My body knows it, even if my head denies it.
And worst of all, I can still smell him. Soap and heat and something darker that stuck to me in the car, in the elevator, in every breath we shared today.
I can still smell the faint mint of his breath when we were so close, I could see that his eyes weren’t just one color of blue.
They’d gone from a crystal blue to navy in a heartbeat.
I bury my face in my hands.
This can’t keep happening.
Because if it does, Maddox Lasker won’t just ruin my season.
He’ll ruin me.
My phone buzzes against the coffee table, a low vibration that makes my pulse jump like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.
I reach for it, half-expecting Dean with another sanctimonious “note” about today.
But it’s Griffin.
Groaning, I drop my head back against the couch and mock-bang it once against the cushion.
I swipe to answer and barely get out a “Hello” before his voice fills the line, amused and too damn knowing. “Caught the highlights of your first preseason game, cuz. That was…something.”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “It was a win.”
“Sure,” he drawls. “If you squint hard enough. Your golden goalie looked like he was skating in quicksand for the first period. Half the analysts are already debating if he’s past it.”
Heat sparks low in my chest. “He settled in. Pulled big saves in the third. That’s what matters.”
“Uh-huh.” He lets the pause stretch. “And then Hunt trying to chew him out in the locker room? Yeah, not a great look.”
I grip the counter tighter. “That’s growing pains. Locker rooms sort themselves out.”
“Unless they don’t.”
His tone isn’t cruel, but close enough to make me bristle.
“Lo, I’m not saying you made the wrong call on Lasker, but you can’t pretend there aren’t cracks showing.”
“I’m not pretending anything, Griffin.” My tone is sharp.
I pace toward the window, staring out at the trees black against the night. “It’s one game. Preseason. Do you really think I don’t know the difference between a stumble and a collapse?”
Griff sighs, softer now. “Just asking if you’re sure. Because you sound like you’re carrying this one man on your back.”
My pulse pounds in my ears. “I’m carrying the whole damn franchise on my back. Maddox is part of that. And for the record—he did fine at the hospital today.”
That makes him pause. “Hospital?”
“Children’s ward. PR lined up a charity visit. He read to the kids. Bonded with a little boy battling cancer. Even smiled.”
Griffin chuckles, disbelieving. “Maddox Lasker. Smiling in public. Now that’s a headline.”
I bite back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Point is—it worked. The press got their story, the board gets proof he’s not a mistake, and the kids…well, the kids loved him.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Griff says, low and careful, “You liked it too, didn’t you?”
The question slices too close. My throat tightens. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything.” His tone softens, but the suspicion lingers. “I just know that sound in your voice. You’re not just defending your player. You’re defending something else.”
I force my voice flat. “I’m defending my team. Period.”
He hums like he doesn’t buy it, but mercifully stays quiet.
For a moment, silence stretches—comfortable, complicated. Then I seize it before it frays. “Actually, I’m glad you called. The gala’s in two weeks. I need a plus-one.”
“Oh?” His tone is instantly suspicious. “And this has nothing to do with keeping the gossip rags from pairing you with one of your players?”
I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing for them to report. But you’re perfect. Family, clean-cut, I know you own a tux, and not a liability.”
He laughs. “High praise from a Carrington. Fine. I’ll dust off a suit and play arm candy. But only if you promise to let me escape early when the speeches start.”
“Deal.”
There’s a beat, then his voice shifts again, quiet but steady. “Just…don’t let this guy burn you, Sloane.”
Oh, great. He used my whole name for this one.
“No one is going to burn me, Griffin. I got this.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“I do. So, I’ll email you the details on the gala.”
“Sounds good. Love you, Lo.”
“Love you, Griff.”
We hang up, and the silence that follows leaves my pulse rattling in my ribs.
I start to toss the phone back on the coffee table when an email notification pops up across the top of the screen.
Dean’s name is waiting like a snake coiled in the grass.
Subject line: Children’s Hospital Recap – PR Outcome.
Of course. He couldn’t resist.
I click.
Attached are links to every major outlet that ran with the story—photos of Maddox crouched beside a boy in a knit cap, the rare smile that makes him look ten years younger.
Video clips of his gravel-rough voice reading, the boy’s laugh ringing like music.
The captions are exactly what I predicted:
Vipers’ Lasker Shows Heart Off the Ice. Carrington’s Gamble Humanized. From Bad Boy to Big Softie?
It’s gold. The kind of coverage we needed.
And then, Dean’s note at the bottom: Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
Heat crawls up my throat as I stare at the infuriating words until they blur.
The asshole simply can’t give me an inch. Always with the smug, calculated jabs.
The implication that Maddox is still a mistake and that I’m the fool propping him up.
I want to throw my phone, or better yet, punch Dean in his pompous face.
I want to march into Dean’s office and remind him, in words sharp enough to leave scars, that I don’t answer to him.
Instead, I breathe deep, jaw locked, because anger is exactly what he wants.
The truth is worse.
Because under the fury, dread coils low in my stomach.
He’s right about one thing.
The board is watching.
Every article, every photo, every moment of Maddox’s body language in front of those cameras will be dissected.
Not just by them, but by sponsors, by season-ticket holders, by every vulture waiting for me to slip.
And if Maddox cracks? If I crack with him?
I lean back, spine pressing into the softness of the sofa cushions, staring at the ceiling like it has answers.
This isn’t just optics or perception or PR.
This is ammunition.
And if we crack, we’ll be handing Dean the bullets to load the gun.
Dean’s email glows on my phone screen like a taunt, but it isn’t his words I feel burning me alive.
It’s Maddox.
Always Maddox.
The way he cornered me in that elevator.
The way his body caged mine, broad chest blocking the air, eyes dark with something dangerous.
I wanted him to kiss me. No—I wanted him to kiss me and then take me. Hard and fast against the steel wall while I clawed at his shoulders.
The thought makes my pulse spike so sharp I can’t sit still. I shove up off the sofa and storm down the hall toward my bedroom, shedding my armor as I go.
Jacket hits the chair. Blouse unbuttoned, sliding off my arms. Skirt unzipped and kicked away along with my heels.
By the time I reach the bed, I’m stripping off lace like it’s strangling me.
I crawl onto the sheets bare skin hot, breath ragged. The drawer gives up my vibrator with a soft scrape.
Cold plastic in my hand, a poor substitute for the man who already owns too much of me.
The hum fills the room as I flick it on, low and steady. I part my thighs, the first press of vibration against my swollen clit ripping a gasp from my chest. My back arches, hips chasing more.
I see him—Maddox in that suit, tie gone, shirt undone just enough to tempt.
Maddox pinning me in the corner of the elevator, voice rough when he warned me he bites.
In my head, he snarls it against my ear: “You want me to ruin you, princess? Want me to fuck you so hard you forget your own name?”
“Fuck,” I whisper, grinding harder, the vibrator slick with need already.
My free hand covers my breast, thumb circling until I moan, knees falling wider.
My pussy clenches around nothing, desperate for him to be here, for his thick cock to fill me instead of the buzzing plastic.
I imagine his hand around my throat, his mouth crushing mine, his other hand yanking up my skirt.
His filthy words spilling hot against my lips: “Say you’re mine. Say you want every filthy inch.”
“Maddox, please,” I breathe, the words tearing out of me, broken and wanton.
The rhythm builds, spiraling me higher, every nerve lit like a fuse. My body begs for him, only him, even as I hate myself for wanting it this badly.
In my head, he’s fucking me against that elevator wall, hips driving me up the steel, my heels digging into his ass, growling, “Take it. Take every inch, sweetheart. You’re not running from me now.”
The coil snaps. I shatter hard, pleasure tearing through me, white-hot and raw.
My cry echoes off the walls, muffled only when I bite my lip, tasting copper. My hips jerk, chasing every aftershock until I collapse into the sheets, panting, vibrator slipping from my grasp.
The room smells of sex and sweat and salt. My skin is damp, trembling, clit still twitching with the ghost of him.
There’s no shame. Only the crushing ache of knowing I’ll never have what I just imagined.
The first man who makes me burn like this—the only one who makes me feel—is the one man I can never touch.
I drag the sheets up over my nakedness, curling around the hollow ache in my chest. My throat tightens.
My body is spent, but the need hasn’t left. It never does, not with him.
Maddox Lasker will ruin me. And I don’t even care.