Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Toni Amato
I change outfits three times before I hate myself enough to stop.
This is ridiculous. I could have gone in my work clothes after the game ended.
It’s a casual drink with some ladies I’ve never met, not a red carpet, job interview, or arranged marriage.
Yet, I face my mirror, dressed in black jeans, boots with heels, and a rich emerald top that accentuates my eyes and softens my mouth.
My hair falls loose for once instead of pulled back tight.
I clip one side loosely. I barely recognize myself. My phone buzzes as I grab my clutch.
Piper: You coming or are we sending a search party?
I smile despite myself.
On my way.
Piper: Text when you get here. Use the players’ entrance on the side alley.
Players’ entrance. Of course. Because normal people apparently use doors while hockey people use secret tunnels.
The bar glows orange and blue against the Chicago night, tucked between brick buildings on Madison with music thumping faintly through the walls.
Three rows of laughing people and a velvet rope crowd the front entrance.
I move past it toward the alley, where a discreet black door sits beneath a brass light.
No sign or line. Just privacy. I text Piper.
At the side door. Feeling mildly illegal.
The lock clicks before I can pocket my phone.
The door swings inward.
A tall security guard in a suit nods once. “Ms. Amato. This way.”
I blink. “Right. Sure.”
Inside, the noise gradually diminishes. Dark wood and low lighting. Polished concrete floors. Hallway walls lined with framed jerseys and black-and-white photos. The scent of cedar and expensive liquor suggests this place is high-end. The guard gestures toward another door.
“Private lounge.” He opens it. Laughter, music, and female voices spill over me.
Piper spots me first. “She’s here!” Before I can brace myself, she’s hugging me like we’ve been friends for years. “You came.”
“You text like a hostage negotiator,” I say.
“I get results.” She grabs my wrist and pulls me inside.
The space opens up to reveal plush leather booths, velvet chairs, a backlit marble bar, and a long wall of glass that overlooks the premier club below. A fireplace glows at one end. Nearby, a bartender violently shakes a canister while feigning ignorance of eavesdropping. And there are women.
Confident women, beautiful and graceful, move through the lounge with an air of ownership, as if they truly belong there. Piper points. “Toni, this is Scarlett.”
A brunette in a fitted cream dress raises her martini. I’ve seen her in the latest rom-com I watched alone on a Saturday night. Movie-star gorgeous with eyes too sharp to be decorative. “The woman who benched Max Stevens,” she says. “I’ve wanted to meet you for twenty minutes.”
I choke on a giggle. “Good to meet you, too. I’m a fan.”
“Sophie,” Piper says next. Dark-haired, chic, amused. She gives me a once-over as if she’s reading subtext.
“Oh, I love her already,” Sophie says. “She looks like she’d return a car without apologizing.”
“I would,” I say.
“See?”
Piper keeps going. “Harper Knox.” A calm, auburn-haired, tall woman perched on the arm of a chair offers a warm smirk. Elegant, understated, watchful.
Goalie-wife energy. The calm of someone who watches everything. “Anyone who can silence an arena full of players gets immediate respect,” Harper says.
“Not silence,” Scarlett corrects. “Temporary confusion.”
“Same difference.”
It’s warm and loud and I'm already relaxing, which means it's dangerous. Piper hands me a cocktail that’s already made. “What is this?”
“Something with gin and bad decisions.”
“Perfect.” We settle into a curved booth, everyone shifting naturally to make space for me. No awkwardness or performative welcome. Just space made without asking. It catches me off guard more than I’d like.
Scarlett leans in first. “So.” I should’ve known. “What exactly did Max do?”
My drink pauses halfway to my mouth. “Today?”
Sophie smirks. “No. In the spiritual sense.” Piper cackles.
“He interrupted a seminar,” I say. “Repeatedly.”
“And?”
“I benched him.” They all cheer loudly enough to turn heads.
Harper lifts her glass. “Historic.”
Sophie grins. “Lucas said he grinned.”
I frown. “He did smile.”
Scarlett points at me. “See? There’s the actual issue.”
“There is no issue.”
Sophie gasps theatrically. “She’s in denial already.”
“I am not in denial.”
Harper speaks for the first time in several minutes. “You don’t hate him.” The room goes still. Of course, the quiet one throws knives.
“I never said I hated him.”
Scarlett tilts her head. “Interesting choice of defense.”
I narrow my eyes. “You girls are exhausting.”
“And yet,” Piper says sweetly, “you’re still here.”
Fair point. I take another drink. “He’s disruptive,” I say. “Immature. Constantly performing. In tonight’s game, he was downright reckless.”
“Also loyal,” Piper says.
“Protective,” Harper adds.
“Annoying,” Sophie says.
“Hot,” Scarlett contributes. We all stare at her. “What?” she asks. “I’m married, not blind.”
I crack up so hard I nearly spill my drink. God. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed myself like this with women without running a parallel calculation about who was watching.
Just... ease.
Scarlett is still going, and I can’t help but snicker. I don’t stop when I should, don’t tone it down to a polite level, and don’t even consider whether it’s too much. My head tips back. Hair falls loose from where I had it pinned. I don't fix it.
I don't fix it.
That registers somewhere below the laughter. The old version of me would have had a hand up before the first strand cleared my ear. The version who decided controlled and safe were the same thing. She would have tucked it back and smiled the correct amount. I leave it loose.
Harper says something dry about Knox never once in six years of marriage cleaning the Zamboni incident off his bag, and I let myself crack up again, and it is loud and it is real and I do not moderate it, and somewhere in my chest a door I had forgotten I'd closed opens about an inch.
I don't examine it.
I just stay.
Scarlett glances toward the glass wall. “Oh, no.” We follow her gaze.
Down below, several players enter the public level of the club.
Even from this distance, I spot Max immediately.
Tall. Broad. Moving with lazy confidence no decent man should possess.
As if summoned by my discomfort, he glances up.
Straight toward the private glass. Straight toward me.
Impossible. Yet I swear his mouth curves.
“Nope,” I mutter, sliding lower in the booth.
The voices erupt. “He saw you!”
“He absolutely saw you.”
“Look at her hiding.”
“I am not hiding.”
Scarlett deadpans, “You’re descending.”
Piper squeezes my arm. “Relax. Players have their own side upstairs too. They won’t come in here unless invited.”
Good. My pulse ignores logic completely.
And for the first time since stepping into the Guardians arena, I don’t feel like the outsider. I stay in my seat.