Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Maddox
I’ve faced slap shots from guys built like brick houses and stared down sold-out crowds at the Garden, but none of that gets under my skin like waiting on her.
The steak’s already on its way from Charred—medium-rare, black pepper crust, side of grilled asparagus.
I even added the damn truffle mac.
Now the place smells like sandalwood-scented candles the girl at the store swore Sloane would love, and I’ve rearranged the living room twice like it’s gonna impress her.
I’m not even trying to get laid tonight, and somehow that makes it worse.
Because this time it’s not about sex.
It’s about her walking through that door and deciding to stay.
I check the time again.
She’s not late. I’m just impatient.
I’m not used to this version of me—the one that gives a damn if the playlist sounds like background noise or if the lighting’s too bright.
I glance at the mirrored backsplash in the kitchen and catch my reflection. The sleeves of my black henley are shoved up my forearms and my jaw’s a little too tight.
I look like I’m trying not to care.
“Trying” being the operative word because I care way too damn much.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Sloane: Be down in a few.
I exhale slowly, setting the phone face-down.
She’s really coming.
Even after the board meeting she wouldn’t tell me about yesterday, even after all the ways this could blow up in our faces, she’s still walking into my place.
And not for sex. Just for dinner.
Which feels more dangerous.
I take one last lap through the condo, straighten a throw pillow I didn’t know I had and not sure I like, and stop just as I hear her at the door.
Three knocks. Confident. Measured.
Hers.
When I open the door, my brain short-circuits.
She’s in jeans that hug her legs like a second skin and a green sweater that brings out her eyes and clings in all the right places. Her hair is loose, her makeup soft, and her smile hesitant.
And fuck me, I think I fall a little harder right there.
“Hey,” she says, holding up a bottle of red. “I brought wine.”
“All I care about is that you’re here,” I say, stepping back to let her in.
A pretty pink blush stains her cheeks as she walks past me, and everything about her—the citrus and spice of her perfume, the swish of her hair, the way her eyes sweep the room like she’s memorizing it—makes my pulse tick up.
I shut the door and lean against it for a second, watching her move.
“Didn’t peg you for a candle guy,” she says, arching a brow at the flickering votive on the counter.
“Didn’t peg you for a woman who’d willingly step into a goalie’s condo.”
Her lips twitch. “Touché.”
She walks further into my place, giving it a once-over. “Place looks good.”
“I cleaned,” I say.
She turns, amused. “For me?”
“No,” I deadpan. “For the wine.”
Her laugh spills out—light and unguarded—and it does something to me.
A reminder of that morning in her kitchen, barefoot and radiant in the aftermath of everything we didn’t say.
I clear my throat. “Dinner’s on the way. From Charred. Hope that’s okay.”
“More than okay. That mac and cheese is borderline erotic.”
“Good thing I ordered it.”
She flashes a smile and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You nervous?”
I don’t answer right away.
Because yeah, I fucking am.
This isn’t sex. This is worse. This is her in my space with no game plan. No walls between us.
Just…here.
“Maybe,” I admit. “You?”
She nods. “A little.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward. Just full.
Then she lifts the wine bottle. “You got a corkscrew?”
“Drawer by the sink.”
She moves into the kitchen like she belongs there, and I follow. Watching her struggle with the cork for a second before I step in behind her.
“Let me.”
Her fingers graze mine as she hands it over, and I feel the contact in my chest.
When I get the cork free, she holds out two glasses from the cabinet without needing direction.
I pour. She hands one back.
“Toast?” she asks, tilting her glass toward mine.
I pause.
“To doing this differently,” I say.
Our glasses clink.
And for a second, her eyes soften in a way I’m not ready for.
But I don’t look away.
Because she’s here.
And I want to do this right.
She steps away with her wine, her eyes trailing over the far wall near the hallway. A moment later she stops.
“Is that a comic book?”
I follow her line of sight. The signed copy of ChronoBlade #1 is mounted in a black shadow box. The ink still looks fresh under the glare of the recessed lighting.
“My cousin Griffin used to love these,” she says, leaning in. “We’d buy issues from the gas station near his house and read them in the treehouse until it got dark. He was obsessed with time travel and twin storylines.”
My brow lifts. “Solid taste.”
“It’s signed. Did you know the artist?”
My throat works around the sip of wine I just took. “Not exactly.”
She glances over her shoulder. “That sounds like a story.”
I shrug, but my voice roughens. “Not really. I recently bought it at auction, actually. Connor, the kid I met at the hospital visit, draws comic books and reminded me how much I loved drawing. So when I saw it come up for auction, I bought it.”
Her face softens. “You draw?”
“Used to. A lot. Mostly on the road. It helped.”
“Do you still have anything?”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s not for anyone else to see.”
“Maddox. Please.”
I grit my jaw. She says my name like it’s a key, like she already knows it’ll unlock something I’ve kept locked up tight for years.
“I’m not trying to analyze you,” she says gently. “I’m just…curious.”
Her voice is soft but direct. And I’m shit at saying no to her.
I sigh, set down my glass, and walk to the hall closet. Pulling a small black portfolio from the top shelf, I hand it to her without opening it.
She takes it over to the table and sits down. Taking her time, she opens the zipper slow, like the contents deserve reverence.
Inside there’s a few inked panels, mostly from memory. A goalie with a cracked mask. A girl with green eyes and a sharp tongue. A city that looks suspiciously like Boston and burns in the background.
She flips through carefully, not speaking at first. Just taking it in.
Finally: “Maddox…these are incredible.”
I shake my head, uncomfortable. “Just something to kill time.”
“No,” she says, firm now. “This is storytelling. This is pain and heart and character. You ever think of doing more with it?”
“No.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “You should.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
But when the knock comes at the door, I swear I’ve never been more grateful for a damn steak in my life.
“Food’s here,” I say, setting my wine down and moving to grab it.
Sloane zips the portfolio back up and sets it aside before following me, hovering just behind as I take the bag from the delivery guy, tip already handled.
The scent of seared steak, garlic, and truffle hits the air, and she groans.
“God, is that the filet?”
“With the black pepper crust,” I say, holding the bag up like a trophy.
She grins and gestures toward the kitchen. “Let’s eat before I commit a felony.”
We set up at the island, plates stacked, silverware already laid out. I hand her the takeout box with her name scribbled across the top in red sharpie.
Charred always labels with care, which is the kind of detail I didn’t care about before.
Now I do.
Because she notices that kind of thing.
“I love this place,” she says, opening the lid and sighing in appreciation at the perfectly cooked filet and roasted asparagus. “Have you had a chance to experience it yet?”
“Not yet. But I’ve been looking for a replacement steakhouse since I left Boston.”
“Is this a test run?”
I give her a look. “If they fuck up the mac and cheese, I’m filing a formal grievance.”
Sloane chuckles and takes a sip of wine. “I’m skipped lunch, so I’m starving.”
“Then dig in.”
There’s a comfortable silence between us and being the fuck up I am sometimes, I’m about to break it.
But now feels like the time to tell her about Boston.
The whole truth.
Not what the Freeze’s spin doctors came up with.
I set my fork down and swallow hard before speaking. “You said once that I was a risk.”
She looks up, fork paused halfway to her mouth.
“You were right,” I add. “But not for the reason you think.”
She sets her fork down. “Tell me.”
I lean back on the stool and run a hand over my jaw. It’s hard to start.
Harder to find words that don’t come out like excuses.
“There was this rookie. Young. First year pro. Barely spoke up in the locker room, but he was fast. Smart and different.”
Sloane watches me, her expression still. Open, but not pushing.
I continue. “He was gay. He hadn’t officially come out, but a couple of guys overheard him talking to his partner on the phone in the locker room one day. He thought he was alone.”
I take a sip of wine before continuing. “Unfortunately, one of those guys didn’t keep his fucking mouth shut, and it got around. Most of us didn’t care. But one guy…”
I have to stop. My blood still boils to this day about the entire situation.
Not just because it was wrong, but also because it brought back way too many thoughts that hit too close to home.
“One guy—a veteran no less—decided to make it his personal mission to break him.”
Her brow furrows. “Physically?”
“Not at first. It started small. Verbal shit. Pranks. Cutting the kid’s laces. Turning his gear inside out.”
My hands clench into fists before I can think about it. “Then it escalated. Slashing him in practice. Elbowing him during drills. Just enough to look like bad luck if you weren’t paying attention.”
“Were the coaches really not paying attention?”
“Oh, they saw. But this guy was one of theirs. Legacy player. Face of the team for years. They weren’t going to call it what it was.”
She’s quiet for a second, but I can tell her gears are turning. “What did you do?”
I exhale slowly. “At first? I told the rookie to stay away from him. Keep his head down. Just play.”