Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Maddox
The Hiss Room crackles like a storm waiting to break.
Not quiet, not reverent—alive.
Jerseys hang sharp and pressed, the Vipers logo glaring back at us from every surface. Gear clatters, sticks thump against the floor, the sharp scent of tape and sweat hanging heavy in the air.
Every guy’s got his own ritual—music blasting, laces yanked tight, heads bowed in silence—but it all blends into the same hum that rides my nerves.
The bass from the arena filters through concrete, the muffled roar of fans pressing down like a freight train.
Opening night.
I’ve been here before, but never like this. Not with a new team, a new city, a new weight riding my shoulders.
Riley’s the loudest. No surprise. He’s strutting in the middle of the room, spinning his stick like a baton. The rookies laugh too hard, desperate to fall in step.
Finn’s no better—shirt half off, tattoos gleaming, jawing about how he’s already planning his celebration when he scores.
Logan’s the opposite—hair slicked back, lacing his skates in calm, efficient movements like he’s already a dozen games into the season.
He’s the kind of guy you’d trust to sell a sponsor in a boardroom or call a play in a war zone. Smooth, steady, untouchable.
Eli sits in the corner, head down, movements sharp. He doesn’t waste energy, doesn’t waste words, but there’s an edge to him. Controlled violence coiled in quiet. When he hits the ice, it’ll snap clean.
Beau is steady as hell, too—joking with Cal and showing him how to adjust his elbow pads so they don’t slip. Patient, guiding.
The man’s built like a wall but plays like a shield, always bracing, always protecting. Must be the single dad to a little girl thing.
Cal’s the outlier. The rookie looks like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He’s fumbling his tape, hands shaking, eyes wide like the arena will swallow him whole.
I watch him for a second too long, because I know that feeling. Twenty-four years old, raw as hell, and praying no one sees the cracks in you.
And then there’s Jace.
The captain, our anchor. Doesn’t need to raise his voice to own the room.
He tapes his stick with surgical precision, shoulders squared like the weight of the team belongs exactly there. The rest of us take our cues from him, whether we mean to or not.
All in all, they’re a formidable group of guys even Cal, who I can see has potential once he gets past the rookie nerves.
Even Riley the peacock. He’s a helluva player, he’s just too much of a showman for my liking.
I tug my laces tighter, hands moving slow and deliberate. I can’t let my mind wander. Not to the shoulder that still throbs when I push it wrong.
Not to the whispers about my age.
And sure as hell not to her.
But she’s there anyway.
Sloane.
Two weeks since the elevator incident as I’ve started calling it.
Two weeks since I had her pinned in a corner, her breath mingling with mine, one shift away from breaking every line I swore I wouldn’t cross.
Two weeks of restless nights where I dream about kissing her, fucking her against the wall of that elevator.
Of waking up with her scent in my lungs and my sheets twisted like I’d been fighting ghosts.
She’s too young. Too untouchable. Too much my boss. And yet…
My jaw flexes as I yank the last lace tight.
The locker room roars as Holt barks his call, players pounding sticks, energy spiking. The tunnel waits, the ice beyond it like a battlefield ready to be claimed.
The rookies are jittering, the vets steady, Riley flapping his damn gums.
And me?
I pull my mask into my hands, weight solid against my palms.
My body hums with the wrong kind of adrenaline, too sharp, too dirty. Because tonight isn’t just about the crease.
It’s about proving I’m not done, even if my bones scream otherwise.
It’s about keeping my head down while the image of a woman I can’t have keeps clawing through me.
The horn blasts outside, long and low, shaking the walls.
Game time.
And then The Pit goes dark.
For half a beat the place holds its breath, twenty thousand bodies packed into one arena, waiting for the spark. Then the fire cannons ignite, bass rattles the glass, and the crowd detonates.
Home opener. The circus in full swing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let’s welcome the visiting team, the Chicago Outlaws!”
Our opposition is met with a chorus of boos, but Atlanta’s a melting pot city, so there’s also a smattering of applause and cheers for Chicago.
Once each player on the Outlaws is introduced, The Pit goes dark once again and the tension is palpable.
The announcer’s voice booms, rich and sharp, threading through the chaos.
“Atlanta… are you ready to feel the bite?”
A thunderous hiss rolls through the arena, thousands of voices joining the sound effect that pours from the speakers.
My skin prickles under my gear—it’s eerie and electric, like standing inside the throat of a beast.
“Welcome your Vipers to The Pit!”
The crowd detonates. Spotlights sweep across the bench as names rip through the speakers one by one.
Riley Hunt struts out first, hair slicked back, grin sharp enough to blind. The place roars for him, the human highlight reel, and he eats it up—arms wide, tapping his chest like he’s king of Atlanta already.
Finn’s next. He makes a show of it, skating half a lap before even finding his spot, tossing pucks into the glass for the kids in the front row, blowing kisses to the cameras. The ovation swells, chaotic, perfect for him.
Logan slides out clean, efficient, nothing wasted even in a damn introduction. Eli follows, the crowd quieter for him, but he doesn’t need noise.
Beau gets a wave of cheers, solid and steady, the kind of player who looks like he’s been here forever. Jace, last before me, gets the captain’s welcome—loud and reverent.
And then it’s my turn.
“Number thirty-three. Goaltender. Maddox Lasker.”
The sound that hits me isn’t clean. It’s jagged. Cheers crash into boos, the mix sharp enough to cut skin.
Boston baggage doesn’t burn off easy, not even a thousand miles away.
My jaw locks. I don’t flinch. I let it soak in, all of it—the love, the hate, and the noise.
If they want a villain, I’ll wear the mask.
The ice reflects fire as I skate out, each push steady, shoulders squared. My body’s already humming, the burn in my shoulder a steady throb under the pads.
Doesn’t matter. The crease is waiting. That’s mine.
But before I reach it, I make the mistake of glancing up.
The owner’s box. High above the ice, lights catching on glass. And there she is.
In a red dress that would make me weak in the knees if I let it.
I’d bet my next paycheck she’s wearing fuck me heels as well.
There’s not a flicker of emotion on her face. To the crowd, she’s untouchable.
But I know better. I’ve felt the heat under that control, the way her body answers even when her voice stays cold.
The sight of her spears a bolt of lust straight through me. Cuts past the noise, past the fire, past every bruise the crowd just hurled.
Heat floods low, wicked and reckless.
Under the lights, in front of everyone, I shouldn’t feel this.
But my chest tightens, my gut coils, and all I can think about is her.
And then I don’t have time to think of her anymore.
The puck drops and The Pit explodes, noise rolling like thunder down my spine. I lock in, knees bent, vision narrowed.
This isn’t preseason anymore. This counts.
The first rush comes fast—too fast. Their winger cuts in off the left, snapping a shot high glove.
My shoulder screams when I reach, but the puck sticks to my webbing anyway. I freeze it, drop it, then clear it out with a smack of my stick.
The crowd roars like it’s bloodsport.
Riley’s next shift is a circus act—spinning off checks, dangling through traffic like the puck’s magnetized to him.
He feeds Finn on the wing, and of course Finn turns it into theater, blowing a kiss at the Outlaws’ bench before ripping one top shelf.
The place goes feral.
Logan takes the next face off, calm as stone, wins it clean, and it’s surgical—two passes, Eli grinding down the wall, Beau backing him up, and the puck’s in the net again.
Efficient. Ruthless.
I feel it in my bones—the shift, the chemistry. The storm that was missing in preseason?
It’s here now.
But it’s not all clean.
Their captain gets loose on a breakaway, and it’s me and him, one-on-one. He fakes glove, goes blocker side.
My shoulder stabs as I push across, but I seal it off, puck hitting pad solidly, and the rebound dies under me.
He crashes the crease, stick jabbing, but I shove back, glove in his chest, my teeth bared behind the mask.
The ref whistles before I decide whether to drop him where he stands.
The roar that goes up isn’t just relief—it’s faith. The kind I thought I’d burned out years ago.
Shift after shift, the Vipers roll, even as the Outlaws get in some hard body checks and generally play just this side of dirty.
Cal stumbles a couple of times, nerves written all over his face, but he hustles back, stick down, eyes sharp.
I bark a cue—“Right side, Reid!”—and he actually hears it, resets, and clears a puck out of danger.
My chest tightens with something I don’t want to name. He’s raw as hell, but he’s listening. That’s more than most rookies ever give.
The goals pile up. Riley feeds Finn for another one, then Logan buries a rebound that ricochets off my pads and turns defense into instant offense.
Beau plays caretaker again, dragging Cal out of a scrum before he gets flattened. Eli throws a hit that rattles glass so hard I feel it buzz through my crease.
Jace? He’s the spine. A steady heartbeat that makes everything else possible.
And me—I’m fire in the net, even with the shoulder grinding like a bad gear. Every shot that hits my pads feeds the blaze.
But every save is a message: I’m not done. Not even close.
When the horn finally sounds, it’s 5–1, Vipers.
Decisive. Dominant. Not a scrap of doubt about it.
The crowd is on its feet, the kind of standing ovation that shakes walls. I pull my mask off slow, sweat dripping, lungs burning.
My name rolls down from the stands—some cheers, some boos, all of it loud.
All of it mine.
And then my gaze finds her.
Up in the owner’s box, red dress standing out and cutting sharper than glass, hair pinned like armor, expression unreadable.
But I feel her eyes on me, heat through glass and distance and tens of thousands of screaming people.
Just looking at her is a gut punch.
Everything about the way I’m feeling is wrong.
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong woman.
And still, I skate off the ice with that pull branded in my veins, hotter than the win itself.
Luck continues to be on my side because somehow I manage to make it through the throng of reporters waiting in the tunnel without getting stopped for a soundbite.
The horn’s still echoing in my skull by the time I hit the locker room, sweat running hot under my pads, the air sharp with victory. Five–one.
A statement win.
The locker room hums, louder than practice ever is—sticks clattering against stalls and towels snapping.
Finn singing something off-key just to make Riley groan. It smells like adrenaline and triumph, the kind of night that reminds you why you bleed for this game.
I strip off my gloves, shoulder aching, but the buzz of the win cuts deeper than the pain.
“Not bad for an old man,” Riley calls across the room, towel slung over one shoulder, grin cutting bright. “Guess you’ve still got it…at least for now.”
The room chuckles. A backhanded compliment, wrapped in that Hunt arrogance.
I meet his eyes for half a beat, sharp enough to make him shift, then let it roll off.
Tonight, the scoreboard says enough.
The room stills when heels strike the tile. Sharp, deliberate.
Sloane steps inside, Dean shadowing her like he’s attached at the hip, but the room doesn’t look at him.
It never does.
All eyes track her, red dress fitted like armor, composure crisp even here in the humid heat of sweat and steam.
God, she’s fucking beautiful.
And I’m so fucked if that’s what I’m thinking when I should be thinking about what she thought of my performance on the ice.
“Good game,” she says, voice cutting through the haze. “A win like that sets the tone. You reminded this city tonight what hockey can be—fast, brutal, and unrelenting. Exactly what Atlanta deserves.”
She scans the room, slow enough that every man feels it. “Wins like this aren’t just numbers on a board. They’re how we build something lasting. Keep it sharp, keep it ruthless, and keep it ours.”
Energy ripples through the room, a tightening of spines, the hum of approval.
Dean claps once, politician-slick. “Strong start, gentlemen. Let’s make sure it’s not the peak.”
Flat. Hollow. His words clang against the tile.
Sloane doesn’t cut him off, but her eyes flick his way—one sharp glance, gone as fast as it comes. A warning without words.
She turns back to us, shoulders squared, voice smooth steel. “Tomorrow is the charity gala. That means every one of you shows up, suited up, polished, and on your best behavior.”
Her gaze drifts deliberately across the room, locking on Finn just long enough to make him shift in his seat. “You are the face of this franchise. When people look at you, they see Atlanta. And I expect you to represent this team at the level of every other elite sport in this city.”
The weight of her words hangs heavy, tighter than Holt’s drills, sharper than Dean’s clipped little notes.
The room doesn’t erupt this time. It settles, quieter but charged.
Dean shifts beside her, plastered smile back in place. The guys don’t look at him. They’re still watching her.
When she leaves, the sharp staccato of her heels echo down the hall, and the silence holds.
Until Finn breaks it.
“Christ,” he whistles low, dragging a towel across his chest. “Tell me I’m not the only one who thinks she’s hot as fuck.”
A couple guys chuckle, nervous, like they’re not sure if they’re supposed to agree.
My fists curl inside the tape still wound around them. Heat spikes, dark and instant, burning through the good mood of the win.
But I don’t move. Don’t say a word.
I can’t.
Because the second I do, the whole damn room will know I think she’s more than hot as fuck.
She’s a woman who sees things in me she shouldn’t, but I let her anyway.
Instead, I just sit there, shoulder throbbing.
The scoreboard says we won.
But the only thing I feel in my chest is the fire she leaves in her wake.
A fire I’d walk through to have more.