Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Sloane
The Pit is alive tonight.
Buzzing, hissing. Unapologetically loud.
There’s music pulsing through the air, fans in flashing neon, signs that glitter under the arena lights—one that even says MARRY ME MADDOX in all caps, scrawled in black Sharpie on a hot pink poster board.
I should laugh. Roll my eyes. Something.
But I just keep walking, heels sharp against the tile as I move through the tunnel toward the owner’s suite like I don’t feel like I’m shattering with every step.
Fan Appreciation Night is supposed to be a celebration. The culmination of months of grind and grit.
It's the kind of night where you smile until your cheeks hurt, where the crowd screams loud enough to shake the rafters, and every handshake comes with a compliment about how far the team’s come.
And we have.
We made it through chaos. Through scandal. Through fire.
And somehow, I still feel like I lost everything.
The suite doors open ahead of me. A few of the sponsors are already inside, sipping top-shelf whiskey and watching the pre-game warmups on the triple screens.
A congratulatory basket from one of our luxury brand partners sits on the table—leather, silk, something sleek and black with my name embossed in gold.
Dean’s absence doesn’t even feel satisfying. It just feels...quiet.
“Sloane, you made it,” one of the board members says as I enter, smiling too hard. “Big night.”
I nod, lips tight. “It is.”
I make the rounds like I’m not hollowed out. Shake hands. Smile when I have to. Pretend like I’m not scanning the ice every few seconds for a glimpse of him.
And then I see him.
Maddox.
Helmet on, visor low, jersey stretched tight across his shoulders as he circles the far side of the rink like a predator locked in.
Every part of him looks like he was built for this moment—sharp, strong, dangerous. The crowd chants his name before the puck’s even dropped.
And I stand there, arms folded, pretending I’m just another executive watching her player prepare.
Not the woman who kissed him in the dark.
Not the woman who fell in love with him too late.
Someone laughs behind me. “Think he’ll announce it tonight?”
“Retirement? Hell, I’ve been hearing that rumor all week.”
My stomach sinks.
He hasn’t told anyone. Not officially. But Coach Holt informed me of Maddox’s intentions.
I stare down at the ice, pulse throbbing behind my ribs. Maddox skates to the bench, jaw set, and my throat tightens.
I don’t know what tonight is going to bring.
But I know one thing for sure.
I’m not ready for goodbye.
The game moves like a blur, but I don’t miss a single second.
Every time Maddox hits the ice, my spine goes rigid.
I feel every blow he takes like it lands on my own skin. The sound of a body slamming into the boards. The whistle slicing through the noise.
His name rising from the stands like it belongs to them.
Because it does.
They love him. Even after everything.
The scandal. The fallout. The tension that’s followed him like smoke.
He’s still theirs.
And he plays like it.
Aggressive. Controlled. Beautifully brutal. Like a man with nothing left to lose and everything still worth fighting for.
The board members beside me cheer when he slides into a split save and smothers the rebound before the winger can pounce, their laughter cutting through the suite like static.
“Still got it,” someone murmurs.
Still got it.
He’s never lost it.
Even when the press tried to rip him apart. When the whispers painted him as washed-up and too volatile to bet on.
When they dragged up Boston again like it was a fresh wound and not a scar he carried every damn day.
He’s never lost it.
And I can’t breathe watching him.
The third period ticks down, and we’re only up by one, 2–1. Overtime potentially looms, the tension so thick I can taste it.
Boston wins a face-off in our zone. They pull their top line out—including Leonard, of course. I press a hand to the glass in front of me, leaning forward without meaning to.
He’s locked in. Maddox. Every muscle wired, eyes tracking like he’s reading the future.
The puck snaps across the slot—
A one-timer.
A rocket.
Straight at him.
And he robs it.
Full extension, glove to the heavens, snatching the shot out of the air like it’s personal.
The Pit explodes. The buzzer sounds.
I shoot to my feet, clapping before I even realize what I’m doing, and it takes every ounce of willpower to stop myself from screaming his name like the rest of them.
On the ice, Maddox doesn’t even celebrate.
He just straightens from the crease, skates toward the glass, and looks up at the owner’s box.
Right at me.
The noise dulls. The pounding of my heart is louder than the crowd now.
He holds my gaze like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.
Like he knows what comes next.
Like he’s already made peace with it.
And I haven’t.
“Hell of a save,” one of the sponsors says behind me, clapping. “Man’s got ice in his veins.”
No.
He bleeds.
I’m the only one who saw it.
I sit back down slowly, hands folded in my lap like that will keep them from shaking.
The PA announcer’s voice echoes across the arena, booming over the noise.
“With a game-saving stop in the final seconds, tonight’s First Star…number thirty-three—Maddox Lasker!”
The cheers erupt again, louder this time. Deafening. Wild.
I barely hear it.
All I can do is watch him skate to center ice as the lights drop and the spotlight finds him.
Alone in the glow.
Stick raised.
A king with no crown.
He nods once.
And something in my gut twists.
He’s planning something.
I don’t know what. But I feel it in the way the tension shifts. The way the players give him space.
The way Holt stands back with his arms folded, watching like he already knows what’s coming.
Maddox is about to do something dangerous.
And I’m terrified I won’t survive it.
But the crowd doesn’t settle after the save.
They swell.
Voices chant his name over and over, and Maddox doesn’t move. He stands at center ice, helmet off now, stick at his side, steam curling off his skin like smoke in the cold.
A storm building.
The spotlight stays locked on him even after the scoreboard rolls into postgame highlights.
The crew doesn’t drop the lights. The music doesn’t kick on. No one calls the players off the ice.
Something’s happening.
And the Pit knows it.
Maddox skates to the nearest ref and mutters something. There’s a brief exchange—sharp nods, clipped words—and then the announcer’s mic crackles again, fuzzed with feedback.
“Ladies and gentlemen…” The PA voice drops low, curious. “If you’d give your attention to center ice, Maddox Lasker has something to say.”
The noise in the arena crests, then quiets like a wave pulling back.
My heart stops. My lungs lock.
No.
He wouldn’t announce his retirement like this.
Not here.
Not like this.
Except he is.
A staff member in a Vipers jacket skates out and hands him something—a black foam core board. From up here, I can’t make out the image on it, but he holds it in both hands like it matters.
Like it means something.
When he turns to the crowd, the jumbotron catches his face.
His hair is damp with sweat, his jaw scraped from a hit, but his eyes—
God.
They find mine and don’t let go.
“I don’t like talking,” he says into the mic, voice gritty, low, everything in him shaking with restraint. “Never been good at it. And I definitely don’t like attention.”
A ripple of soft laughter rolls through the stands.
“But there’s someone in this building tonight I owe more than a private apology. Someone I hurt… because I thought I was protecting her. Because I was trying to undo the wreckage I’d caused, even if it meant pretending I didn’t love her.”
A gasp breaks from my throat. Tessa’s hand clamps down on my arm.
He keeps going.
“I said some things in that boardroom I didn’t mean. I did it so she’d be safe. So no one could take what she built. I thought I was being noble. But I was being a coward.”
His voice cracks there, just a little.
“I told her she wasn’t a distraction. That she was the reason I still wanted to be better. And then I walked away anyway.”
He pauses. Lifts the board.
The jumbotron switches to an image—his drawing.
It’s a comic panel. Two figures, unmistakably him and me, rendered in simple black ink. I’m in a business suit, heels planted, expression fierce. He’s in full gear, shoulder bruised, mouth bloodied.
Behind us, the arena is in flames. The world is collapsing.
But we’re standing side by side, holding hands.
The caption:
Let it burn. I’ve got you.
A sob punches out of me.
“I made this on the road,” Maddox says. “Because I needed to remember what we looked like when we weren’t scared. When we were just…us.”
He looks straight up at the owner’s suite again.
“I don’t know how to fix everything. I can’t give you back control or undo the things we lost. But I can tell the truth.”
He drops the board. Tosses his gloves. Drops his stick.
And then he turns to face the owner’s suite—face me—and sinks to one knee.
A roar detonates across the arena, but it sounds like static in my ears.
Because I can’t breathe.
“Sloane Carrington,” he says, without a mic now, just his voice carrying like thunder. “You’re the only win that ever mattered.”
My knees go weak.
He doesn’t move.
The whole team stands behind him at the bench, silent and watching. Coach Holt nods once, arms crossed, eyes sharp but approving.
Tessa is crying.
So am I.
I push to my feet, trembling so hard I can barely stand, and move to the front of the glass. Hands braced. Heart pounding like it’s trying to claw its way out.
Maddox stands. Picks up the drawing again. Skates forward until he’s beneath me, face tipped up, haloed in light.
“I’m not asking for a second chance at the team,” he says. “I’m asking for a second chance at you.”
The silence is deafening.
And then it hits.
Applause. Screams. The crowd erupts, stomping, cheering, crying. Chants start again—my name this time, god help me—and all I can do is stare at him while my world shakes around me.
Because this man.
This gruff, guarded, maddening man—
Just laid his soul on the ice in front of thousands of people.
For me.
I don’t remember walking out of the suite. Or running down the tunnel. Or bursting onto the ice in heels and a blazer like a lunatic.
All I remember is the sound Maddox makes when I reach him.
Like breaking and coming back together in the same breath.
I don’t say a word.
I just throw my arms around him and kiss him like I’ve got nothing left to lose.
And maybe I don’t.
But I’ve got him.
I don’t know how long we stay like that—arms locked tight, mouths fused, the arena spinning around us like a dream we haven’t earned.
When I finally pull back, it’s not far.
My forehead presses to his, our breath shared between us, hearts pounding out a rhythm too big for words.
He cups my jaw, rough hands trembling. “You came down.”
I nod, blinking hard. “You left me no choice.”
That crooked, broken smile pulls at his mouth. “Good.”
We just stand there.
The crowd still roars. The lights still burn. But all I see is him.
His hand is still wrapped around the comic, the edge bent now from his grip. I trace it with my fingers.
“You really drew this?”
“On the road. After that night in the suite.”
I swallow, heat thick in my throat. “I look like a badass.”
“You are a badass.”
He exhales a soft laugh, vulnerable in a way that cracks something in me wide open.
“I’m not asking you to forgive me yet,” he says, voice low so only I can hear it. “But I’ll spend the rest of my life proving I was worth the risk.”
I don’t answer right away.
Because the truth is, I already have forgiven him.
He lifts our joined hands, kisses the back of mine in front of the whole damn arena, and for the first time in forever, I don’t feel like I’m carrying this empire alone.
Because he’s not just standing beside me.
He’s with me.
We walk off the ice together—step for step—leaving the past where it belongs.
Behind us.