Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Max Stevens
Outside the club, reporters crowd the entrance. Same questions, different night.
“People, you listened to my press conference remarks. Go home to your families.”
“Max, your penalty minutes are up thirty percent this month. Concerned?”
“Concerned is a strong word.”
“Toni Amato’s disciplinary program not helping?”
“Depends what you mean by helping … Gotta go, guys, there’s a glass of somethin’ waiting for me in there.”
The private lounge has top-shelf bourbon and things I don’t deserve.
I should still be upstairs. The guys filtered out an hour ago, and I stayed because Trey had one more story about the Philly game, and then Coach called to run through film notes, and then I just stopped going anywhere.
The quiet was good. The kind of silence you don’t get when you’re Max Stevens.
Marble floors. Dark wood. Some rich owner decided hockey players need a spa after punching each other for a living.
He wasn't wrong. I find the towel rack near the back hall from memory. The facilities team leaves the sauna running Thursday nights for the players who use this level. I’m the only one who comes alone.
It’s my ritual to do Contrast Therapy for key performance.
Steam curls along the ceiling of the private recovery room, thick enough to blur the recessed lights into hazy gold circles.
My muscles loosen under the warm mist, but my head stays wound tight.
I drag a towel over my face and swear under my breath.
Two years, and she still finds the gaps I forgot to defend.
An-ton-i-a Amato. Standing in Piper’s lounge tonight, like she belongs in our world. Laughing with Scarlett. Trading sarcasm with Sophie. Letting Piper drape an arm around her shoulders as if they’ve shared secrets for years. And every few minutes, glancing toward the glass. Toward me.
I grab my towel, sling it low around my hips, and head for the ice bath for round one. Five minutes later, I step into the corridor, toweling my hair dry.
And stop dead.
Toni exits the women’s restroom across from me. Black sexy boots. Dark jeans hugging every inch of her. Silk green top cut low enough to remind me I’ve suffered enough in this life. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders.
She freezes too. Her gaze drops to my chest.
Lower. A pulse jumps in her throat before she jerks her eyes up again. Well. Would you look at that? “Evening, coach.”
She exhales through her nose. “Do players always wander public spaces half-naked?”
“Only when fate rewards them.”
“This is the private level.”
“Exactly. Premium nudity.”
Her lips twitch before she can stop it. Victory. I approach gradually, ensuring she has enough time to move. She doesn’t. Interesting. “You’ve been avoiding me,” I say.
“I’ve been enjoying my evening.”
“With one eye on the glass downstairs.”
“I was monitoring behavior.”
“Mine?”
“Everyone’s.”
“Liar.”
Her chin lifts. “Careful, Mr. Stevens.”
Mr. Stevens. I rest one palm against the wall beside her head, close enough to catch a whiff of the citrusy perfume she’s been wearing all week. I’ve involuntarily memorized it. “You keep calling me that,” I murmur.
“It’s your name.”
“No,” I edge in. “That’s what strangers call me.”
Her breath catches, tiny and sharp. Fire rolls between us, hotter than the sauna ever managed. “What should I call you?” she asks, voice low.
I grin. “You remember.” She tries to sidestep.
I shift with her. Not trapping, but matching.
Her hand lands on my chest to stop me. Bad decision.
Every nerve in my body snaps awake. Her palm spreads over damp skin, fingers flexing once before she stills them.
We both stare at her hand. We both catch it at once.
My gaze drops to her lips, I whisper, “Toni.” My voice comes out rougher than I’d like.
“You touching me usually ends badly.” I lean in. She knows why.
She swallows. “Usually?”
“For clothing.” Color rises in her cheeks.
“I’m working,” she says.
“At midnight?”
“It’s ten-thirty.”
“So you’ve been counting the minutes too.”
She glares. I want to kiss the glare off her face. I barely move.
“You’re impossible.”
“You liked impossible in Rockford.”
Her eyes flash. “Rockford was a mistake.” The words land cleanly. Sharp enough to cut.
I nod once. “Funny.” I step aside, giving her the corridor. “Best mistake I ever made.”
For the first time since she walked in, her confidence slips. Not much. A crack. Enough. She squares her shoulders and moves past me, perfume trailing through the air. I watch her because I’m only human. God, I missed this.
Steam washes over me the second I push through the sauna door. Dense. Wooden. The cedar is stronger in here. Thick enough to think in. I drop the towel on the bench and sit in the dark for a while, elbows on my knees, the sweat already building across my shoulders.
The door clicks.
I don’t move. The sauna is dark except for the amber glow from the heating element.
The steam clings along the upper bench. I track sound instead: the soft exhale when the door seal breaks, the careful step inside, the small intake of breath when the warmth hits.
Then nothing. She’s standing in the dark.
And she knows it’s me. I tilt my head back against the wall. The heat has loosened everything.
“Wrong room, Toni? Am I in your way?”
She finally steps in and lets the door close behind her. She’s still dressed from the evening, but she’s barefoot. The floor is warm wood. She notices me noticing. “I’m not here to talk about that.”
“Then what are you here for?” She doesn’t answer right away.
Crosses to the upper bench opposite mine and sits with her back straight and her hands in her lap, every inch of her saying she's fine. I am not affected. I’ll give it maybe thirty seconds.
“You’re going to pass out sitting like that,” I say.
“I’ve been in saunas before.”
“You’re holding tension in your shoulders that makes me tired just looking at it.”
Her chin tips up. “My shoulders are fine.”
“Toni.”
“Max.” We stare at each other through the steam. The amber glow catches the line of her jaw. The loose hair. Two years ago she laughed and it pulled that hair sideways, and I’ve thought about it since. “Why didn’t you just pretend you didn’t recognize me?” she asks.
The question settles in the air between us. No buildup. Just the question. I hold it for a second. Then: “You know why.”
“Say it anyway.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees again, and look at her directly.
“You were my most unforgettable night, then you disappeared as though I was something to escape.” The honesty costs me more than I expect.
I’m not built for it. Not in this direction, anyway.
Give me a fight on the ice and I’ll bleed without flinching.
But this? Sitting in the sauna and telling a woman she mattered? Different kinds of exposure.
Her jaw is locked. But her eyes give her away. They always do. “I had reasons,” she says.
“I know. The job. The rules. The father who’s officiated games for decades and already hates players like me.” I tilt my head. “How am I doing?”
“Twenty-nine years, he’s officiated. You’ve been doing research.”
“You do research. I pay attention.” The steam thickens between us.
She looks at the wall, then back at me. She's deciding something.
I can see it in the way she's holding herself, the cautious version, doing battle with the one I know from Rockford.
I saw her tonight before she saw me. Sitting out there in the parking lot for four minutes.
Head forward. Just breathing. She looked like someone surviving something.
Not sure what it costs her, being so buttoned up.
But I saw what it looked like in Rockford when she stopped trying. “Still running?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t snap at me or reach for the clipboard she doesn’t have.
Just considers. “There was an unfortunate history with a hockey player before we met. I followed him against my father’s wishes.
” The air shifts around her. Her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
She draws nearer instead. Not close enough to touch.
But more personal than professional. Closer than safe.
Near enough that I can see the faint flush across her collarbones that isn’t just the sauna.
“This conversation isn’t happening,” she says.
“No?”
“No. And if you mention it—“
“I won’t.” She and I lock eyes. “I don’t want an audience for you.” That one echoes differently than anything else I've said all week. I watch it move through her. The flicker. The way she stills.
She steps back. One step. Back to her bench. Her spine straightens, hands resting atop her lap. “Get some sleep, Max,” she says. “You’ve got a seven-thirty session tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrow. She almost smiles. Doesn’t. The door opens, and she’s gone. The cool air from the hallway cuts through the steam for exactly three seconds before the heat seals back around me.
I sit in it.
Outside, through the hallway, I hear the click of her heels picking back up the rhythm they’d lost when she walked in barefoot.
Leaning my head back against the wall, I let out a sigh. I don’t want an audience for you. This week, I’ve said a lot of things. Smart things, dumb things, things designed to get a rise out of her.
That one I meant. The woman I want is the one she only lets exist in private. She knows it. That's what costs her.