Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Sloane
I don’t move.
Not when I feel Maddox’s stare burning between my shoulder blades.
Not when the silence grows so thick I can taste it.
He’s still by the door, not leaving.
I can feel the weight of him in the room like a storm front pressing in.
My fingers tighten around the edge of my desk, my heart a snarled mess of anger and something softer I can’t name.
If I turn around, I’ll break. If I say too much, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
“You got what you came for,” I say, voice cool as glass. “Now go.”
The words scrape my throat raw. But I don’t let it show.
Behind me, nothing but silence. A heartbeat passes before his boots shift once on the tile.
The handle clicks.
But when I finally turn, it’s not Maddox leaving.
It’s Dean walking in.
Son of a bitch. How long has he been standing on the other side of the door?
His brows lift, one slow rise of smug satisfaction as he takes in the scene. Me at my desk and Maddox inches from the door.
The storm in the air we didn’t quite clean up.
“Well,” Dean says, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. “Don’t let me interrupt the lovers’ quarrel.”
Neither Maddox or I move.
For once, we’re aligned.
Dean folds his arms. “I was coming to let you know the board’s called an emergency session. Later tonight. Boston’s blown up bigger than expected.”
My stomach drops.
Dean glances between us. “But I guess there’s two crises to address now, huh?”
The silence snaps like a bone. Maddox straightens, stepping forward just enough to send heat up my spine.
“There’s nothing the board needs to discuss about this,” I say.
Dean doesn’t blink. “You sure about that? Because the optics aren’t great. And considering the story leaking out of Boston, it’s a hell of a coincidence.”
I open my mouth to speak, but Maddox beats me to it.
“She didn’t leak it.”
Dean gives him a slow, mocking nod. “Maybe not. But now the timing is a story. This scandal was bad enough. Now the owner of the Vipers is sleeping with the player at the center of it? That’s two fires, not one.”
I close my eyes.
Just for a second. Just long enough to find my footing again.
When I open them, my voice is iron.
“This is my team. If the board has questions, I’ll answer them. But I won’t be interrogated in my own office over a relationship that has nothing to do with the Boston leak.”
Dean’s smile is paper-thin. “Then be ready to defend both. Because the vote tonight? It’s not going to be about Boston anymore. It’s going to be about whether you’re still the right person to lead.”
He lets that sink in, then turns and leaves without another word.
The door clicks shut.
And for a long, breathless second, I just stand there. Hands braced on the desk. Jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
Maddox doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t have to.
The boardroom is colder than usual.
Unforgiving.
Dean is already seated when I walk in.
Because of course he is.
His smirk barely hides behind his professionalism. He nods to the board members filing in, most of whom I’ve known for years when I was cutting my teeth on quarterly projections while my father ruled this table with a cigar in one hand and a warning in the other.
Now they look at me like I’m a scandalous burden.
“Maddox Lasker will join us shortly,” Dean says, all casual like he didn’t just listen to my private life get torn apart through a door I never heard open. “Shall we begin?”
I don’t sit. Not yet.
“We’re here to discuss two things,” I say, voice even, crisp. “The leak concerning the Boston incident, and any concerns regarding my relationship with Mr. Lasker.”
There’s a flicker of surprise across a few faces.
Good. Better they hear it from me than let Dean drip it out like poison.
A moment later the door opens quietly, and Maddox walks in.
He’s dressed in a black pullover and slacks, hair still damp from the shower.
I hate the punch to my gut seeing him dressed like he belongs in a boardroom.
He looks damn good. But also different. Almost like I don’t know him.
Maybe I don’t.
Because he doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak. Just takes the open seat like he’s been called into a post-game review, not into the room full of folks who might cut his legs out from under him.
One of the board members clears his throat. “Mr. Lasker. It’s been brought to our attention that you and Ms. Carrington were—are—engaged in a personal relationship. Is that true?”
Maddox doesn’t blink. “Yes.”
Dean’s mouth twitches like he wants to cheer.
“And is that relationship ongoing?”
A pause. Long enough to make my pulse thud.
Then Maddox says, “No. It’s over.”
It hits me like a slap. I don’t flinch. I don’t move. But every muscle inside me goes rigid.
He won’t even look at me when he says it.
The questions shift to me. Expected. Practiced.
“Did you leak the Boston information, Ms. Carrington?”
“No.” My tone is sharp steel. “The matter was closed legally. I was briefed internally on the incident at the time of acquisition. Only two other members of that legal team had access to the records. None are employed by this organization.”
“Were you aware of the optics of bringing Mr. Lasker onto the team?”
“Yes. Which is why I ensured all internal protocols were followed. His performance speaks for itself.”
Dean leans forward. “Performance doesn’t negate perception. Or distraction.”
“If perception’s enough to override talent,” I say coldly, “we should fire half the roster.”
He doesn’t respond. But the dig lands.
Another board member—one of the older ones, with silver hair and a thick Southern accent—leans in. “Ms. Carrington, are you emotionally compromised in your role?”
“No.”
His brow lifts. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. Even if it’s a lie.
They turn back to Maddox. “Mr. Lasker. Do you believe Ms. Carrington leaked the story?”
His jaw works. Slowly, finally, his gaze lifts to mine.
For a moment, there’s something there. Not softness. But clarity.
“No,” he says. “She didn’t.”
Dean doesn’t like that answer. “Regardless, the optics are messy. Fans and sponsors are asking questions. There’s concern about judgment, leadership, and locker room fallout.”
“I’ve done my job,” Maddox replies coolly. “You asked me to play like a franchise anchor. I did. That’s the job.”
The silence stretches. Measured. Calculating.
Then the board chair clears his throat. “We’ll adjourn for two hours. During that time, we’ll call in Coach Holt to review any impact this may have had on locker room culture and team focus. At the end of the recess, we will vote.”
Dean doesn’t hide his glee now. “Very good.”
They rise. One by one. No handshakes. Just silence.
Maddox stands too. Starts for the door.
I don’t stop him. I want to. God, I want to.
But I can’t. Not now and judging by the way this meeting went, not ever.
We’re over before we began.
And just like everything else with this team, it feels like what I had to say or what I feel means less than nothing.
So fuck all of them.
Let them vote. Let them rip this legacy out from under me. But I will not fall apart while they’re watching.
And I will not beg a man to stay who’s already decided to leave.
Two hours on the dot later, the board files into the conference room.
Their faces betray nothing. It’s stoicism at its finest.
But the air has shifted. It’s heavier, like a sentence has already been written and we’re all just pretending this part matters.
Dean’s tie is loose around his neck now, his sleeves pushed up, a worn-out performance of casual authority.
Maddox sits two seats down from me. Stone-faced. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable.
I wish my body would behave and not be on high alert knowing he’s around.
“We’ve reconvened after reviewing the materials submitted by both parties,” Chairman Weatherby says, his voice even. “Including the written statement from Coach Holt and internal player reports from preseason through current standings.”
He adjusts his glasses. Doesn’t smile.
“There are two matters on the table. Let’s begin with Ms. Carrington’s ownership review.”
My spine straightens, but I don’t move.
I don’t flinch.
I already know what they’re going to do.
“You’ll retain ownership of the Atlanta Vipers.”
A brief murmur rolls through the room.
“However,” he continues, “effective immediately, your voting share will be reduced by fifteen percent until the conclusion of the season. During that time, all roster decisions must be approved by the board, and you are to refrain from direct player contract negotiations or signings.”
Dean leans back in his chair, satisfied.
Like he didn’t just gut my power in front of everyone.
Like I didn’t fight tooth and nail to get here.
“We’ll revisit your full reinstatement in the off-season, pending performance and compliance.”
I nod once. No emotion. No blink.
If I show how badly that burns, I’ll unravel.
And if I unravel, I lose everything.
The chairman clears his throat.
“Now, regarding Mr. Lasker.”
Maddox doesn’t shift. Doesn’t breathe.
“There’s no evidence of a policy breach on your part outside of a personal relationship that has now, per your statement, ended.”
That word lodges in my chest.
Ended.
He said it. Out loud.
“Given your importance to team performance and current league standing,” Weatherby continues, “you will remain on the roster through the remainder of the season.”
Maddox’s jaw clenches.
“However, your contract will not be renewed. This decision is final.”
Dean jots something down like it’s just another box checked.
“And any off-ice promotion or franchise branding involving your image will cease immediately.”
Another cut. One I didn’t see coming.
I swallow hard, but it doesn’t go down.
“Is that clear?”
Maddox gives a single stiff nod.
He doesn’t look at me.
Not when the votes are recorded.
Not when the board begins to adjourn.
Not even when the words relationship is over hang between us like barbed wire.
By the time I stand, my hands are trembling.
I curl them into fists and pretend it’s from anger.
But it’s not.
It’s grief.
And no one here will ever know the difference.
They let me keep the team.
They just made sure I couldn’t keep the one man who played like he believed in me.