Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Toni Amato
If there’s one thing I’ve learned working in hockey, it’s this: Men like structure.
They just don’t like being told they need it.
Which is exactly why I'm standing in front of the entire Gold Coast Guardians roster with a whistle around my neck and a room that will soon find out that I've already won.
The locker room has a stench I’ll never get used to.
Wet gear and adhesive spray and something underneath that I’ve decided is just hockey.
The smell of men who've been doing this since they were nine. It sits in the ventilation system and the carpet tiles and the ancient team photos lining the upper wall, the ones where the jerseys are a slightly different shade from the current design because nobody’s updated them in eleven years.
There’s a crack in the ceiling tile above stall fourteen, around which someone has drawn a face in black marker.
The face has a tiny referee uniform. I notice it in my first week and say nothing.
It’s been there long enough to become load-bearing.
The arena runs on ritual. I understand this now.
The specific order in which sticks line the rack.
The security guard at the east entrance — Gerald, I've learned — always has a crossword open on his phone. He always asks the same players the same questions as they pass. He never asks me anything. He nods. That’s its own ritual.
I’ve been nodded at by Gerald forty-seven times. I’ve started counting.
Today, helmets line the shelves. Sticks lean in perfect rows. Half the team lounges across the benches waiting for entertainment instead of a discipline seminar. Perfect. I don't introduce myself again right away. I let the silence stretch until it fills the room. One by one, conversations die off.
Good. “Phones away,” I say calmly. A couple of guys hesitate. I never raise my voice. I’m just waiting. It takes five seconds. Maybe six. Every phone disappears. Respect in rooms like this isn't demanded. You wait for it to arrive.
“I’m Toni Amato. Some of you I already met. Some of you, not yet.” I say, pacing slowly in front of them. “NHL Performance and Compliance.” A beat. “I’m not here to babysit you.” That earns a few smirks.
A familiar voice interrupts from the corner. “Shame. I was looking forward to story time.” Max. Of course.
I don’t turn toward him immediately. I let the room feel the interruption.
Then I glance over. He’s leaned back against his stall, arms crossed, that lazy grin already in place, just waiting for me to react.
Max Stevens should not be allowed to be this attractive while actively misbehaving.
“If you need a bedtime routine, Mr. Stevens,” I say evenly, “I can recommend one that doesn’t include penalty timeout.
” The room fills with the sound of laughter.
His grin widens. Yeah. He likes this. Good.
“Let’s get something straight,” I continue, shifting my attention back to the group.
“You’re professionals. Which means every decision you make on the ice affects more than just you. ”
I’m three minutes into the penalty breakdown when Max raises his hand.
Not urgently. Lazily. The hand of a man at the back of a classroom, who has decided to become everyone’s problem today.
I don’t call on him. He keeps it up. “Yes, Mr. Stevens.”
“Just a clarifying question.”
“Go ahead.”
“When you say unnecessary roughness — are we talking about the hit, or the general vibe?”
“The hit.”
“Because I feel my vibe is entirely necessary.”
The room loses it.
I wait. He waits. Neither of us breaks. The team feels it. They love every second. I continue clicking the remote. Game footage flashes on the screen. Max. Of course it’s Max. Mid-hit. Aggressive. Reckless. Effective. “Last game,” I say. “Two-minute minor. Unnecessary.”
“Debatable,” Max calls out.
I don’t miss a beat. “Not according to the league.” A few of the guys snort.
I keep going. “You want to play physical? Fine. That’s part of the game.
But there’s a difference between controlled aggression and losing control.
” My pupils flick to him now. Direct. Intentional.
“You don’t get to cost your team momentum because you couldn’t make a smarter choice. ”
This silence carries more weight than before. Because now it’s not banter. Now it’s the truth. Max pushes off the stall, slow, deliberate. “Or,” he says, stepping closer, “I’ll protect my team the way I’m supposed to.” The room stills. They’re watching. Waiting. Testing.
I hold his gaze. “You protect them by staying on the ice,” I say. “Not sitting on a bench while they clean up your mess.” That stings.
A couple of low whistles. Someone mutters, “Damn.”
Max’s eyes lock in. Not angry. Interested. Like I just gave him something worth chasing. “Careful, Toni,” he says, voice lower now. “You keep talking like that, people are gonna think you’ve been watching me.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Unfortunately.” The room breaks. Laughter. Actual laughter.
Even Trey shakes his head. “Alright,” he says, grinning. “I like her.”
“Yeah,” Fuze adds. “Can we keep her?” I ignore them.
Two minutes later I walk past his stall, pointing to a clip on my screen, and his hand comes up, casual, two fingers, a lift. And my whistle is gone from around my neck before I register the motion.
I stop. Glare at him. He has the whistle in his mouth. Not blowing it. Just. In his mouth. Staring at me with the calm of a man who has absolutely no concerns about his current situation.
Every person in this room is holding their breath.
I hold out my hand.
He considers it.
“Stevens.”
“You really should wear it shorter,” he says. “Easier access.”
“Easier access for whom?”
“Safety reasons.” He folds his arms. “Coach.”
I shake my head and stand my ground.
He takes the whistle out of his mouth, places it in my palm, and leans back. “Careful, coach,” he says solemnly.
“Why.”
“You touch me and I stop hearing English.” That hits differently than I expect. Warmer. I file it away before I realize what I'm filing. The team makes a sound that suggests they also noticed.
I turn back to the monitor. My pulse is faster than it should be. I don't want to guess the exact number.
Coach. No. Absolutely not.
“Gear up,” I say, clapping once. “We’re taking this to the ice.”
The shift from the locker room to the rink is immediate. The air is colder. Sharper. Cleaner. This is where they’re comfortable. Where they think they have the advantage. Good.
“Line up,” I call. They do. Faster this time. We run controlled drills first. Positioning. Reaction timing. Decision-making under pressure. I watch everything. Every hesitation. Each shortcut. All instincts that cause a penalty instead of continuing play.
The thing about hockey players is that they’re always wet.
Sweat, water bottles, the spray off the ice, there is a permanent humidity to this profession that I have accepted as an occupational condition.
I’m standing at the boards reviewing footage on my iPad while practice runs, and I’ve accepted it entirely.
What I haven’t accepted and won’t accept is Maxwell Stevens.
He finishes the third-line drill, skates to the bench, reaches over the boards, and pulls his practice jersey over his head. In one motion. His back is to me for approximately one second before he turns to dig through his bag for the dry jersey.
I look at the tablet. Focus on the play. There is no Maxwell Stevens shirtless on this footage. I keep my focus on the screen. Don’t react. Do not react. He feeds on reactions.
He holds the dry jersey but doesn’t put it on. Braces one hand on the boards and gazes at the ice. “The read I made in the third drill with the crossover positioning—”
“Your weight was too far forward on the outside edge.” I don’t glance up. “It cost you a half-second on the recovery.”
“How do I fix it?”
“Shift the load point to your heel before the crossover initiates.”
He’s still holding the jersey. I can see this in my peripheral vision, which I am not using. “Can you show me on the tablet? The angle.”
I pull up the clip. Hold the screen toward him.
He leans over the boards to see it, which brings him approximately fourteen inches from me, and he is still not wearing the jersey, the rink air is cold and he is warm and both of these facts reach me simultaneously.
Unfortunately, he smells good even though he’s sweaty. That feels relevant to my suffering.
“There,” I say, pointing at the frame. “See the heel?”
“Yeah.” He’s focusing on the screen. “Yeah, okay.”
He straightens. Still holding the jersey. Gazing outward now, processing. I return to my own tablet.
Trey Dillingham glides past the bench. Looks at Max. Looks at me. Again at Max.
“MAX.”
“What.”
“JERSEY!”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ve been thinking for five minutes.”
“Edges are complex, Hammer.”
“PUT THE…”
“Thank you, Trey,” I say without looking up.
Fuze skates near and stops. Points at me. Points at Max. Glides away making a gesture I fail to see but which provokes laughter from the entire defensive line.
Max puts the jersey on. Finally. In the unhurried way of a man who has decided that dressing is a leisure activity.
“Heel load point,” he says.
“Before the crossover initiates.”
“Got it.” He pushes off. Glides back to the drill. Runs it again, and I watch on the screen this time because I am a professional who uses available technology.
His positioning is perfect. Not better, but perfect. First try.
He realizes I’m watching. He doesn’t acknowledge it.
The not looking is somehow worse than if he had.
I write in my notes: The subject demonstrates rapid technical correction when motivated. Motivation source: unclear. Investigating.
I’m sure about the source of the motivation. I’m not writing it down.