Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sloane
The zipper slides into place with a whisper, green sequins catching the light like a thousand tiny daggers.
I smooth the fabric down my sides, palms pressing against my hips, as if I can force my pulse to steady by sheer will.
No such luck.
My reflection in the mirror stares back at me—steel spine and sharp jaw. And my dress?
Well, I picked it because it’s a weapon dressed as a gown—glitter sharp, neckline dangerous, slit unapologetic.
My hair’s twisted into a chignon so tight it feels like a crown, every dark blonde strand pinned exactly where I want it.
A Carrington never walks into a room half-finished. Not when the board will be there, not when Dean will be circling, not when the cameras are hungry for proof I don’t belong in this role.
I slide diamond studs into my ears, their weight familiar, grounding. Aunt Sara’s voice echoes in my head:
Never give them an inch. If you falter, they’ll eat you alive.
But it’s not Dean or the board making my chest feel tight. It’s knowing Maddox will be there tonight.
God help me, the thought makes my skin flush hotter than a thousand suns.
I press my palms flat on the vanity, leaning closer. “Pull it together, Sloane.”
The woman in the mirror doesn’t look back with doubt. She looks back with ice.
Controlled. Perfect.
And maybe a little desperate under the surface, but no one will see that but me.
“Anyone home?”
I give one last glance in the mirror, checking my classic red lipstick, before grabbing my clutch and striding down the hall to where Griffin is standing in the living room.
Dark hair and trimmed beard, his tux a perfect fit.
My cousin smirks the second his eyes land on me. “Christ, Lo. Trying to kill half the room before they even pour champagne?”
I arch a brow. “If they drop, less small talk for me.”
His laugh is low, warm, and familiar. He leans in to kiss my cheek, the scent of his cologne threading between us. “You look stunning.”
I let the corner of my mouth tilt. “That’s the point.”
He offers his arm, all smooth charm and easy strength. Griffin’s always been that—family and anchor, the reminder that someone in this city still sees me as a person, not just a headline.
For a flicker, I let myself breathe easier.
But when I glance once more at my reflection as we head out, I can’t help the thought that cuts through everything else.
Maddox is going to see me like this.
And that thought…has my heart pounding and my stomach flipping.
I shouldn’t care whether or not he thinks I look stunning, but the truth is I do.
The hotel entrance is a wall of light and noise—cameras flashing, velvet ropes straining, reporters calling names like it’s blood in the water.
Griffin offers his hand after he steps out of the car, and I take it, steady, letting the shimmer of green sequins catch every bulb.
Flashbulbs pop. I angle my chin, smile just sharp enough to hold distance.
Griffin plays his role easily. He looks every inch the powerful plus-one. Safe. Handsome. A shield.
And then…
Maddox.
He steps from the black town car behind us like the air itself bends around him.
A black tux clings to every cut of his frame, broad shoulders swallowing the fabric, the sharp line of his jaw shadowed in the light.
No date. Just him.
All presence and heat, dragging every lens his way.
The crowd swells, shouting, and cameras detonate in bursts. He doesn’t even try to smile. He doesn’t need to. That scowl is magnetic, pulling focus until I feel it in my bones.
For one dizzying second, my body betrays me. I want to do nothing more than drink in the sight of him in that tux.
If I could just look at him, maybe I could make sense of the knot twisting in my stomach.
In the next instant, Maddox’s gaze cuts over us, ice-blue and burning at the same time. It lands on Griffin’s hand over mine and lingers just long enough that my throat goes tight.
His jaw clenches once, hard, like he’s already decided what this looks like.
And he doesn’t like it.
My lips part, instinct to explain rising like heat under my skin. Except he doesn’t give me the chance.
He turns on his heel, shoulders squared, and strides straight into the ballroom with cameras snapping in his wake.
The photographers roar louder, chasing him, and just like that he’s gone, leaving nothing but the hollow in my chest where his stare still burns.
Griffin watches him disappear inside, then glances down at me, his voice pitched for my ears alone. “He doesn’t like me.”
My breath hitches. “What do you mean? On the ice?”
“No, here. Right now.”
“He doesn’t even know you.”
Griffin’s mouth curves, knowing, dark hair catching the light. “Doesn’t have to.”
I laugh, but it scrapes my throat raw.
Something tells me this is going to be a long night.
Once inside, the ballroom hums like a hive, chandeliers dripping light across sequins and black ties, champagne bubbling in tall flutes.
I sit at a round table near the front, Griffin at my right, Dean at my left. Across from me, two board members and their wives chatter over the centerpiece—a spray of white orchids tall enough to feel like another barrier.
It doesn’t take long for the conversation to shift.
“Griffin,” one of the wives leans forward, eyes sparkling, “the media’s saying you’re in prime position this year. What do you think?”
Griffin smiles, polite, shoulders relaxed in his suit. He answers smoothly, the whole table leaning in.
And I’m invisible.
Every nod, every follow-up question aimed at him. Not the woman sitting here who owns the team hosting this gala, who signs their checks, who keeps the lights on in this room.
I sip champagne, slow, letting the bubbles coat the bite in my throat.
Griffin, to his credit, tries. “You should really ask Sloane about how things are shaping up here. She’s the one running the show.”
Dean clears his throat, smiling tightly. “Oh, she’s modest. Griffin, how’s your new captain handling the locker room?”
The pivot is sharp enough to cut. My hand curls in my lap.
I want to remind them whose logo is splashed across the stage backdrop.
I want to demand they look at me.
But I don’t.
Carringtons don’t demand. We remind.
I angle my chin, letting my gaze drift across the room like their dismissal doesn’t sting.
And that’s when I find him.
Maddox.
He’s at the next table, posture coiled in the chair like he’d rather be anywhere else. He isn’t laughing at the sponsor’s jokes or schmoozing like Riley, who I can hear carrying on two tables over.
He’s just sitting there, jaw tight, glass untouched.
But his eyes are on me.
Our gazes collide, and heat licks up my spine, dangerous and instant.
I should look away. Should fold back into the chatter at my table, the men who ignore me in favor of my cousin’s stats.
But Maddox doesn’t look away.
And I can’t either.
It’s a tether, thin and electric, strung tight between tables. My pulse trips, champagne fizz sharp in my veins.
Griffin leans closer, his breath warm at my ear. “Careful, cuz,” he murmurs low enough no one else hears. “You’re going to set his tux on fire with how hard you’re staring.”
Heat scorches my cheeks, but my face stays smooth and practiced. “Shut up, Griffin.”
His voice is edged with quiet amusement. “Just observing.”
Before I can answer, the emcee’s voice booms over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the owner of your Atlanta Vipers, Ms. Sloane Carrington.”
The table bursts into applause, chairs scraping back. Griffin rises with me, his hand brushing my elbow as I stand, glittering gown catching the chandelier light.
My spine is ramrod straight, my pulse pounding as I cross the room toward the stage.
But even as I climb the steps, even as the lights blind and the applause swells, I can feel him.
Maddox’s stare.
Heavy. Hot.
Daring me to meet it.
And my body betrays me, every step sharper under the weight of wanting.
The applause swells as I reach the stage, heels clicking across polished wood.
Griffin stays one step behind, pausing at the podium’s edge, his dark suit a shadow of quiet support. He doesn’t try to wave, doesn’t try to draw the cameras—he knows this is my stage.
I lift my chin, let the lights wash over me, and let the hush fall.
“Thank you,” I begin, voice smooth and steady through the thunder of my pulse. “Tonight is about more than hockey. It’s about community. About connection. About making sure that the youngest among us—the ones fighting battles most of us can’t imagine—know they’re not fighting alone.”
A murmur runs through the crowd, approval soft and warm. I breathe it in, controlled, refusing to let my nerves show.
“We’ve partnered with Atlanta Children’s Hospital to create programs that go beyond a single visit or a photo op.
From equipment donations to long-term support for families in crisis, the Atlanta Vipers are committed to making a difference.
Because this city deserves a team that fights as hard off the ice as it does on it. ”
Applause breaks out, strong and echoing. I let it rise and crest before leaning forward, gaze sweeping the room.
And there—front and center in the crowd—Maddox.
His broad frame is a dark slash against the glittering crowd. He doesn’t clap. Doesn’t smile.
He just watches me, unblinking, the force of his gaze dragging heat down my spine like a touch no one else can see.
My mouth goes dry, but I don’t falter.
“This isn’t just about wins or losses. It’s about building a legacy together.” I pause, breath even. “And with all of you here tonight, I know we will.”
The applause roars back, bright and deafening. Cameras flash. Griffin nods faintly from the sidelines, quiet pride in his eyes.
But it’s not his gaze that sears me.
It’s Maddox. Still staring, still burning, like every word I said was meant for him alone.
I walk off the stage, and cameras descend the second I step down. Flash after flash, questions shouted over one another, handlers corralling bodies into neat little lines for the perfect shot.
Griffin slides to my side without needing to be asked, one hand at the small of my back as we pose. He knows how this works—angles, smiles, the practiced charm that makes the reporters eat out of his hand.
I smile for them too. Perfectly measured. Perfectly polished.
Maddox stands at the edge of the crowd, his height and broad frame cutting through the sea of tuxedos.
He doesn’t push forward for the spotlight, doesn’t offer anything to the cameras. He just watches.
Heat snakes up my spine every time my gaze catches on his. Every click of the camera feels like it’s capturing something I shouldn’t let bleed through.
“Closer,” one of the photographers calls, motioning Griffin tighter against me. He obliges, grin flashing easy as ever, his arm sliding just a fraction firmer at my waist.
And that’s when Maddox shifts—jaw locking, shoulders tight, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
It shouldn’t thrill me the way it does.
But it does.
The bulbs keep firing, questions flying, Griffin leaning in to whisper something light in my ear that makes me laugh.
But all I can think about is the man at the edge of the frame—the one who doesn’t belong to this part of my world, yet manages to own every breath I take anyway.
The camera bulbs finally dim, handlers ushering donors back toward the bar, the photos with Griffin still flashing across my eyes.
My cheeks ache from holding the same curated smile, my pulse raw from knowing exactly whose gaze burned into me the whole time.
When the floor opens and the band eases into something smooth, the first player at my elbow isn’t Maddox.
It’s Jace.
“Owner Carrington.” He offers his hand with the calm weight of a captain who knows exactly what he’s doing—making the first move before anyone else can. “May I?”
The corner of my mouth curves. He’s impossible to say no to. “Of course, Captain.”
The crowd parts as we step onto the floor. Jace doesn’t speak much—he never does—but his steady presence is enough to make the donors murmur approval.
His hand is firm, his lead unshakable, his small talk clipped but respectful.
Safe.
When the song ends, he thanks me and releases me with the same precision he brought to the ice earlier this week.
I barely have time to exhale before Finn sweeps in, chaos personified in a tux.
“Boss lady,” he grins, bowing low in mock chivalry, “you’re too radiant to be wasted on the suits. Give a real guy a spin.”
I roll my eyes but let him tug me back out.
He keeps it clean—for Finn—but his mischief is impossible to miss.
He twirls me a little too dramatically, cracks a joke loud enough for half the room to hear, and has the donors laughing along with us by the time the music shifts.
“Behave,” I murmur under my breath.
He winks. “This is me behaving.”
When he spins me out for the last time, Logan is there to catch me.
Smooth, polished, the perfect transition. His hand at my waist is respectful, his smile practiced but not empty.
He knows exactly how to make this look effortless, like the whole thing was planned.
“Donors are eating this up,” he murmurs low, glancing toward the tables. “You’re making us look like an organization that knows how to shine.”
“That’s the point.”
He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Not all of us need lessons.”
I don’t rise to the bait. I just hold his gaze and let the silence answer for me.
When Logan spins me out for the last time, Beau is there to catch me.
Smooth and solid, his palm steady at my waist, his movements confident without showboating.
“You’re keeping the boys on their best behavior tonight,” he says, keeping his voice low.
I smile, a quiet hum in my throat. “No easy feat let me assure you.”
I’ve danced several songs in a row with nearly all of my players.
Except the one I really want to be held by.
My body hums with the press of too many hands, too many eyes.
Griffin stands near the edge of the floor, watching with arms crossed, a faint smirk curving his mouth like he knows exactly what game is being played.
Maddox sits in shadow, tie loosened, drink in hand.
He hasn’t moved once—not to dance, not to smile, not to look anywhere but me.
His eyes brand me with every step I take, every polite laugh I give, every palm I let rest against my back.
And when I finally return to my seat, flushed and breathless, I swear I can still feel him watching.