Epilogue
Maddox
Six Weeks Later – The Pit
It’s quiet tonight.
No cameras. No crowds. Just the hum of the boards and the way her laugh echoes off the ice like it belongs here.
Sloane carves a perfect curve at center, scarf fluttering behind her, cheeks pink from the cold.
She’s not rusty—she’s lethal. Powerful. Beautiful. The kind of grace you don’t lose, even after years behind a desk.
“If this is how you looked on Olympic ice, no wonder the world lost its mind.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes wicked.
“Careful, Lasker. You sound impressed.”
“I’m trying not to look worshipful,” I shoot back. “It’s not going well.”
She pivots with a flick of her blade—smooth and effortless—spraying a mist of ice in my direction. “Watch out, goalie,” she says, voice teasing. “This isn’t my first rink.”
She shoots me a look, that deadly combination of boardroom steel and bedroom heat, and my blood sparks the way it always does with her.
No games. No secrets. Just this: her and me and everything we fought like hell to survive.
We haven’t talked much about Boston. About Dean. About the board’s vote or the press cycle that chewed us up and spit us back out.
She still lost part of her voting share for now. I still announced my retirement. But neither of us lost what mattered most.
We didn’t lose us.
I skate toward her, slow and easy, like we’ve got nowhere to be. She watches me come, chest rising faster, pupils darkening even before I reach her.
She knows what I’m thinking.
“Here?” she murmurs, breathless.
“It’s our ice,” I rasp, taking her hand. “They just play on it.”
Her scarf slips off. My fingers slide under her coat and brush the warm skin of her waist where her sweater’s ridden up.
I feel her shiver—not from cold, but from the way I look at her. Like she’s the only win that’s ever mattered.
We kiss at center ice, slow and deep, the kind that doesn’t end with mouths. My hand finds the back of her neck. Hers fists in my hoodie.
And yeah. We don’t make it to the locker room.
She ends up on her back on my coat, legs wrapped around me, her soft moan swallowed by the rafters.
I fuck her slow, reverent, like I’m writing our names into the ice. Like every thrust, every kiss, every whispered promise is a contract the world doesn’t get to void.
“I love you,” she breathes against my mouth, shaking under me. “I’m never letting you go again.”
“Good,” I groan, buried to the hilt inside her. “Because I’m not giving you the chance.”
We come undone together, bodies slick, hearts loud in the silence. After, I roll to my side, pulling her into my arms as we lie under the banners—our jerseys side by side up there now, hers stitched into the history she earned.
“I’ve got something for you,” I murmur, reaching into my pocket.
It’s the comic. The final one I sketched—the one I didn’t give her until now. She sits up, unzipping the envelope, fingers gentle like she already knows what this means.
The panel is simple.
Me and her. Skates on. Backs to the boards. Facing the world, ready for the next period. Above us, in bold ink:
“Sudden Death’s Got Nothing On Us.”
Sloane presses her lips together, eyes shining. Then she curls into my side, tucking the comic to her chest.
“Think they’ll let us back in the locker room?” she teases.
“Not if they see the ice.”
She laughs again, full and easy, and damn if I don’t feel lucky every time I hear it.
Because I almost lost this.
I almost lost her.
But now we’ve got overtime. A second chance. A new game.
And this time?
We play on the same team.
THE END
Thank you so much for reading GAME MISCONDUCT!