Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Maddox
The locker room hums with the usual pre-game chaos—sticks clatter, tape rips, someone’s blasting a remix of a Taylor Swift song Riley insists is for “vibes only.”
It should ground me.
This room.
This rhythm.
It’s what I know.
But my focus keeps slipping.
I run tape along my stick in slow, precise rotations. The stretch-pull-snap is mechanical, something to do with my hands while the rest of me spirals.
It’s been a day.
A full day.
No call.
No message.
Not even a damn emoji.
Sloane’s silence is louder than any headline.
And maybe that’s fair.
Maybe I should’ve called her. Just said, Heads-up—Finn’s dick made the rounds on TikTok.
I don’t know what the rules are between us anymore.
But I know I broke something.
I roll my shoulder, just enough to feel the ache spike down my back. It’s tight. Overused. Pissed off.
I haven’t told Holt. Haven’t told our trainer. Hell, I haven’t told myself, not really.
Because admitting it means slowing down.
And I can’t afford slow. Not when the only thing keeping me sane is moving fast enough to outrun everything I feel.
“Cal, you’re lacing up like a twelve-year-old girl at summer camp.”
Cal throws Riley a look. “You learned that from me yesterday.”
Riley grins. “Yeah, and I’m workshopping it.”
Cal shrugs and goes back to lacing up. He’s quieter than usual. Focused.
Not nervous. Just…still.
Like he’s trying not to show something.
Jace leans against his stall, taping his own stick with slow, even passes. He hasn’t said a word, but his eyes cut toward me. Observing.
He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Doesn’t need to.
The guy sees everything.
And that’s the problem. I can’t afford anyone seeing me right now.
I duck my head and finish my tape wrap. The last turn snaps tight at the blade. The sound echoes sharp through the room.
Then the door swings open.
Coach Holt walks in—clean navy suit, no tie, expression like we’re already down by two.
And he’s not alone.
Sloane steps in behind him, heels quiet on the concrete, coat open over a soft black sweater. Next to her is a woman I don’t recognize—shorter, polished, holding a tablet like it’s a weapon.
My whole body locks.
I wasn’t ready to see her tonight.
And yet…here she is.
Sloane Carrington, in the flesh.
And just like that, the air in the room shifts.
I sit straighter. My pulse spikes. The noise around us dulls to static.
She doesn’t look at me. Not even once.
But she doesn’t have to.
I feel her—like electricity against my skin, like the shadow of a memory that won’t leave quietly.
I take in everything in one hungry sweep.
Hair pinned back, sleek and simple. Diamond studs in her ears. Red lip. That soft black sweater pulled tight across her breasts.
My hands ache to have those tits in my hands again.
But under all of that, there’s tension she’s barely holding together.
She’s doesn’t show it, but I can see she’s rattled.
It’s in the set of her jaw, the flick of her eyes. In the tight grip on the cuff of her sleeve that only I would notice because I notice everything about her.
She’s pissed. Controlled, calculated—but angry.
At Finn.
Maybe at herself.
At me.
And I probably deserve that.
Still, a selfish part of me wants her to look at me.
Just once.
I want her to give me something I can hold on to.
A flicker of softness. Of heat. Of us.
But she stays cool. Regal. Unshakable.
And I hate how much I still want her anyway.
Coach Holt steps forward, clearing his throat, and the spell snaps.
“All right, gentlemen. Eyes up.”
Coach Holt steps back with a nod. “Carrington’s got a few words before we hit the ice.”
Sloane moves forward. Not rushed. Not timid. Just certain. Like she’s done this a hundred times.
Like there isn’t a room full of men and steel and sweat watching her every move.
I swallow hard.
She stops at the front of the room, coat open, hands loose at her sides.
“First off,” she says, voice calm and clear, “thank you. I know this season hasn’t been easy.”
No one dares move. Even Riley shuts up. Her voice is silk over steel. Cool, polished, but carrying weight.
“You’ve shown up. You’ve played hard. You’ve put wins on the board. And I see it. I appreciate it.”
She lets that hang for a beat. Then shifts.
“But I won’t lie to you.”
My chest tightens.
“This team is being watched. Not just by fans. Not just by the media. But by people with influence. People who think I don’t belong here.”
There’s a rustle—chairs adjusting, gear creaking.
She breathes once. Then lays it down.
“If we don’t make playoffs this year and next—if we don’t start building a Cup-worthy reputation now—those people will use it as justification to pull this franchise out from under me.”
The silence is total.
My jaw locks. I didn’t know that part. She never told me.
Another truth she kept in that glass-and-gold vault of hers.
And I hate how much it fucking hurts.
Especially when I laid my cards out to her.
She nods toward the center of the room, eyes sweeping the space. “That means every penalty matters. Every fight. Every headline. It’s all ammunition—for or against.”
Her gaze cuts sharper now. “So stay clean. Stay sharp. Keep playing like the whole damn league is watching—because they are.”
That twist in my gut pulls tighter. Because she’s not just talking to them. She’s talking to me as well.
And I still don’t know if I failed her by doing too little, or by walking away when I should’ve held on.
She exhales slowly, tone softening just a notch. “Now, on to something a little more festive.”
She gestures beside her. “This is Noelle Jennings. She’s the lead event planner for our holiday toy drive and charity gala in December. She’s here to make magic happen.”
Noelle steps forward, smiling like a damn holiday commercial in heels. “Hi, everyone! Don’t worry—I won’t keep you long. Just know I’ll be coordinating your charity outreach for the next several weeks.”
Riley makes a joke under his breath about ugly sweaters and elf hats. Jace elbows him.
But I barely hear her. Because across the room, Cal’s gone dead quiet. And his eyes? Locked on Noelle like someone just knocked the wind out of him.
Interesting.
Sloane glances at Noelle, then back to the team. “Whatever she needs, you give it to her. No excuses. No ghosting. Or you answer to me.”
The corner of Riley’s mouth twitches. But he doesn’t test her.
She turns slightly, like she’s about to walk out—then stops.
Her eyes find mine.
Just for a second.
Everything freezes.
We don’t speak. We don’t move.
But it hits me like open ice contact.
I see the ache in her chest, the storm behind that smooth exterior. And I wonder if she sees it in me too. The regret. The restraint. The goddamn need.
I want to say something. Anything.
But the moment ends.
She turns away.
“Wait.”
The voice comes from Finn.
He stands slowly, helmet in hand, grin nowhere in sight. “Before we go out there…”
The locker room stills again.
He clears his throat. “I want to say something. To all of you.”
A beat. Then another.
“I know I embarrassed the team this week. I know it wasn’t just a joke or some harmless stunt. It mattered. And it wasn’t okay.”
Riley shifts, but stays quiet. Jace watches him like a hawk.
Finn rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not great at…boundaries. Or thinking ahead. But I want you to know I get it. And I’m gonna be better. For the team. For the front office. For her.”
His eyes flick to Sloane, quick and respectful.
“And if I mess up again?” he adds, mouth tight. “I’ll own it. No excuses.”
Nobody claps. But nobody mocks him, either.
I nod once.
Jace follows. Even Riley doesn’t mouth off.
Sloane’s still near the door, frozen in place.
But her posture loosens. Just slightly.
“Thank you, Finn.”
Then she leaves—coat whispering behind her like smoke—and the war begins.
They drop the puck, and everything else disappears.
I don’t think about the video. The silence. The way her voice cracked beneath all that polish when she said she couldn’t do whatever this is.
I just watch the ice.
Nashville comes hard. Fast break out of the zone, their right wing testing me early with a wrist shot glove side. I snag it without flinching. Toss it to the ref like it didn’t cost me anything.
Even though it did.
Even though my shoulder’s on fire already, that deep, dull burn that wraps around the joint and bites with every extension.
But I’m still standing. Still in it.
They cycle through fast. Pucks flying, bodies crashing, chirps echoing off the glass.
I let it wash over me. Let it scrape something raw and focused inside me.
The Vipers are holding, but Nashville smells blood. They push harder.
Riley gets caught deep. Eli’s slow on the backcheck. My crease clogs up, and I lose sight of the puck for half a second.
That’s all it takes.
Top corner. Blocker side.
I don’t even turn around. Just skate to the net, tap the post, and reset.
1–0, Nashville.
Eli bangs his stick on the boards, frustrated. Riley throws a gloved hand in the air. Holt’s shouting line changes from the bench.
I breathe.
One. Two. Three.
Next shift, Eli barrels in toward the net, tip-in off a beauty of a feed from Cal. It’s dirty. Scrappy. A garbage goal if there ever was one.
But it counts.
1–1.
The bench erupts. Cal’s face lights up, flushed and focused as Riley grabs his cage and yells something about “finally earning that damn locker.”
They’re pulling together.
Finn’s next on the ice. Eyes sharp. He’s all elbows and attitude, but he draws a penalty the clean way—drew his man out of position, and when the guy hooked him, Finn just grinned and kept skating.
No chaos. Just grit.
I nod to myself behind the mask.
Redemption in real time.
Power play doesn’t convert, but the tone shifts. We’re controlling the puck now. Slowing Nashville’s rush.
Jace throws a monster hip check at the blue line that nearly rattles the boards loose.
Second period winds down, and we’re still knotted.
Until Riley catches a blindside hit.
It’s late. Dirty. Shoulder to jaw. He goes down hard, helmet skidding across the ice.
My heart spikes.
I slam my stick against the post. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”
The ref doesn’t move. Doesn’t blow the damn whistle.
I lunge out of the crease—just two feet—rage boiling behind my eyes.
But Jace skates in front of me, calm and commanding. He mutters something I don’t catch, but I fall back.
Barely.
Riley gets up under his own power, wobbly but waving it off.
He’s fine. Or pretending he is.
I look up.
Owner’s suite. Top right corner above the glass.
And she’s there.
Sloane.
Backlit by the arena glow. Hands folded at her waist. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on the ice.
Locked on me.
My pulse hammers in my throat.
I don’t blink. Don’t look away.
I skate back to my net and crouch. Feel every muscle in my body scream as I reset.
Whatever pain’s in my shoulder, whatever noise’s in my head, it doesn’t matter.
She’s watching.
And I need this win like oxygen.
So I give them the rest of the game.
I block three breakaways. Kill a four-on-three. Snap a glove save on a point-blank wrister that should’ve tied it late in the third.
We hold.
Eli gets the empty-netter in the final thirty seconds.
Final score: 3–1. Vipers.
The crowd explodes.
The horn still echoes through the rafters when Riley launches his stick in the air and whoops like we just won the Cup.
We didn’t.
We won a divisional game on a Thursday night in November.
But right now, to them? It’s everything.
I stay in the crease, crouched, mask on, chest heaving.
My shoulder’s gone numb. The good kind of numb—the kind that means you gave everything and still came out clean.
Finn gets a hard clap on the shoulder from Logan. Jace even grunts out a “nice work” as he passes him on the way to the handshake line.
Cal looks dazed—like he still can’t believe he belongs here—but when Jace lifts a hand, Cal meets it with a quiet, stunned high-five.
The crowd is still on their feet.
And then the announcer’s voice booms over the system.
“Tonight’s First Star of the Game… Number thirty-three, your Vipers goalie, Maddox Lasker!”
I glance up once—top right, Owner’s Suite.
She’s already gone.
Applause swells. I raise one glove, give the barest nod, and skate toward the bench. My teammates bang their sticks in rhythm on the boards.
I should feel something.
Pride. Relief. Satisfaction.
Instead, my shoulder throbs. My lungs burn. And all I can think about is the empty space behind the glass where she used to be.
The locker room is chaos.
Steam rising. Music thumping. Beers cracked open and half-spilled on the floor.
Riley’s dancing shirtless in front of his stall. Finn’s trying to convince Jace to wear his lucky boxers next game. Eli’s arm is slung around Cal’s neck like they’ve been teammates for a decade.
Laughter bounces off the tile walls.
I sit in silence.
Still in my gear, pads unstrapped but not removed. Tape hanging loose from one glove. Helmet at my feet.
My shoulder’s a firestorm, but it’s the hollow in my chest that hurts more.
She saw the game.
She saw me.
And still—nothing.
Not a nod. Not a text. Not a signal from behind the glass.
I gave her everything I had tonight. Shut it all down. Led this team like I’m supposed to.
But it didn’t fix a damn thing.
The scoreboard says we won.
But all I feel is the ache.
The space where something used to live.
You can win the night and still lose the person who made it matter.