Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sloane
My heel taps once beneath the boardroom table, a soft click only I can hear.
The screen at the end of the room shows a clean spread of stats and projections. Attendance is up. Social engagement is up. Even merchandise sales have ticked higher since the season opener.
And still—
Still, I can feel the way they’re looking at me.
Dean, of course, is seated at the other end of the table, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled like he’s running this meeting instead of me.
The other board members hover in degrees of silence and deference, some flipping through the printed decks in front of them, others pretending to follow the numbers on the screen.
But Dean doesn’t pretend. Dean waits.
“I’d like to shift into community engagement next,” I say, letting my voice slice clean through the room.
“The numbers are in from the October activation series, and response has been stronger than projected. Midtown skate clinics were at full capacity. We’re seeing strong social traction on both Instagram and TikTok. Sponsors are happy.”
I tap the remote. The screen changes again, now a clean mockup of the new campaign.
“For December, we’ll roll out the Vipers Holiday Drive.
We’re partnering with Hope & Home Atlanta to collect toys for underserved kids across North Georgia.
Players will be present at the pickup event.
We’ll be hosting it here—on home ice, post-practice, open to the public.
PR will hit next week. Charitable sponsorships are already in review. ”
A couple nods around the table. A few murmurs of approval.
Dean, of course, stays silent. Until he doesn’t.
“And the players are all confirmed?” he asks casually, eyes not on the deck but on me. “No pushback on appearances?”
“No,” I say. “Attendance is required, barring injury or medical restriction.”
“And Lasker?”
The question drops like a stone in the middle of the table.
I don’t blink. “He’ll be there.”
Dean lifts one eyebrow. “How’s he doing?”
It’s a simple question. Measured. Professional.
But the pause that hangs after it isn’t.
“He’s contributing,” I answer smoothly. “He’s top five in save percentage across the conference. Locker room reports are neutral to positive. He’s stayed out of the penalty spotlight.”
I hear myself say it—clinical, practiced, bulletproof—but my pulse still kicks once, hard.
Because I know what Dean’s doing.
He’s not asking about stats.
He’s poking the bruise. Watching for the flinch.
“He’s an expensive gamble,” Dean says mildly, flipping to the next page of the printout. “We’ll want to make sure the optics hold, especially with press invitations going out for the toy drive. Cameras will be everywhere. Social interns tend to wander.”
“I’m aware,” I say evenly. “We’re monitoring optics closely.”
Dean smiles. Thin.
Another board member clears her throat. “Sloane, while we’re on the subject of performance…”
Here it is. The pivot.
“We’d like to reiterate what was outlined in the ownership continuity clause.”
I nod once. “Of course.”
Dean picks it up like they rehearsed it. “The board expects a postseason berth this year—and next. No exceptions.”
I anchor my hand against the table and force my body to stay still.
“We’ve seen improvement,” another member adds quickly, trying to soften the blow. “But given the size of the expansion investment and the shift in ownership, we need back-to-back playoff appearances to justify long-term retention.”
Retention.
Like I’m a player. A gamble.
“Let me be clear,” Dean says, voice smoother now. “We all want you to succeed, Sloane. But this is still a business. And results matter.”
There it is.
Not a warning.
A line in the ice.
I incline my head. “Understood.”
The rest of the meeting rolls forward—updates from legal, some financial notes from the interim CFO, Tessa piping in with a few calendar reminders.
But I barely register any of it.
Because I can still feel Dean’s words clinging to my skin.
Lasker.
Optics.
Playoffs.
Gamble.
I sit straighter. Tighter. My posture textbook perfect. My face unreadable.
I give them nothing.
Not my nerves. Not my memories.
Not the press of Maddox’s mouth against mine in the darkened suite three nights ago.
I’m Sloane Carrington.
I own this team.
I built this empire from the ashes of a man who never wanted me to hold the torch.
And I will not burn for wanting something that was never in the rulebook to begin with.
I should be asleep.
Instead, I’m curled on the couch, bourbon in hand, hair unpinned, a knit throw blanket slouched around my bare legs. The only light in the room comes from the city outside—soft amber wash from the streetlights below, and the occasional blink of a plane overhead.
The board packet sits unopened on the coffee table. My laptop’s in sleep mode. My second glass of bourbon is almost gone.
And Maddox’s name is still sitting at the top of my screen.
I haven’t called him in three days.
We agreed—without saying it—that space was safer. That silence meant strength.
And yet…
My thumb hovers over his name.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
The call connects before I can second-guess it.
He answers after the first ring, voice low, rough with sleep. “Hey.”
That one word kicks something loose in my chest.
“Hey,” I whisper back, eyes falling shut as I sink deeper into the couch.
There’s a beat of silence. Then a slow inhale on his end, like he already knows where this is going.
“You callin’ me this late for a reason?” he asks, voice dipping.
“I needed to hear you,” I say. Truth, laid bare.
He groans, soft and guttural. “Fuck, Sloane. You can’t say shit like that when I’m a thousand miles away.”
My breath catches.
“What are you wearing?” he asks.
I glance down. “A robe.”
“That’s not an answer.”
I swallow. “Nothing under it.”
“Jesus.” His voice fractures, and I feel it—like heat through the phone. “You touching yourself yet?”
“No.”
“Do it.”
I shift under the blanket, nerves fraying. “Maddox—”
“Do it,” he growls again, command tight. “You called me. Let me take care of you.”
My hand slides beneath the robe, fingers brushing bare skin, the sound of his voice already lighting me up.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “Nice and slow. I want you thinking about my mouth on you. About the way I’d drag my tongue down your body, make you beg before I let you come.”
A sound slips out of me, soft and desperate.
He groans again, but it’s different now—raw, strained. “Fuck, I’m hard just thinking about you.”
There’s a rustle on his end. The unmistakable shift of sheets. A breathless curse.
“Maddox?”
“I’m stroking my cock, baby,” he says, low and filthy. “Thinking about how sweet you tasted. How fucking tight your cunt is around me.”
I squeeze my thighs together, breath trembling. “Tell me.”
“I’d have you under me again, spread out, shaking. My mouth on your pussy, my fingers deep inside you. I’d keep you there—right on the edge—until you scream.”
My fingers move faster, hips lifting.
“You close?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he grits out. “Touch yourself harder, Sloane. Let me hear you fall apart.”
“Maddox—”
“God, I want you under me,” he pants. “Want to fuck you so deep you forget every damn boardroom and stat sheet. I want you messy. Mine.”
The orgasm takes me like a riptide, sudden and hard. My breath catches on a moan, head thrown back, thighs trembling as his voice drives me over.
He lets out a sharp gasp—low, broken, desperate.
“Jesus…Fuck,” he groans. “You should’ve seen how fast I came, princess. You wreck me.”
Silence stretches as we both catch our breath. The only sound is the soft hum of the city around me and the ragged cadence of our breathing.
Then his voice comes again, quieter this time. Unsteady.
“You ever think about what this could’ve been if we weren’t who we are?”
The question scrapes across my chest like broken glass.
“I try not to,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
But he doesn’t stop. Like something in him is cracking wide open in the dark.
“You don’t leave my head, Sloane. Even when I want you to. You’re just…there. Embedded. Like you rewired something in me and now I don’t know how to turn it off.”
My fingers press to my lips, holding in everything I want to say.
I close my eyes, throat thick.
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he admits. “I don’t know how to do this right. But I know I don’t want to be just a mistake you regret.”
The silence after that is crushing.
So I give him the only thing I can. The one sure and true thing I know when it comes to Maddox.
“You’ve never been a mistake.”
It’s not everything he needs. Not even close.
But it’s all I have tonight.
“You’ve still got another day on the road,” I say finally.
“Yeah.”
“And then a long home stretch before Thanksgiving. And then the toy drive party.”
“You want to talk about work now? After what I just said to you?”
I flinch at the bitter disdain in his voice.
Sitting up a little straighter, I adjust the blanket over my legs. My heart pounds, but not for the same reasons it did a minute ago.
“I should go.”
“Sloane—”
“Maddox, I can’t do this right now.”
“Do what exactly?”
“Have this conversation. About us. Look, I shouldn’t have called.”
His silence is louder than a scream. I can practically feel him putting those walls back up through the phone.
“Good night, Sloane.”
I close my eyes against tears that threaten to spill over. He doesn’t call me princess and as much as I hated it at first, I’ve come to treasure it now.
But I can’t tell him that now. It won’t look genuine. So I respond the only way I can.
“Good night, Maddox.”
My phone screen goes dark, and I toss it on the floor.
The silence feels heavier now. My body’s still humming from the orgasm, but the end of that conversation left my chest too tight to breathe easy.
This was supposed to be about control. About owning the risk.
But I feel more exposed than ever.
I stare out the window for a long time, my bourbon empty, my phone dark.
This thing between us isn’t just dangerous. It’s unsustainable.
The woman who never loses is about to lose it all.