Chapter 11 #2
He studies the screen. Jaw working slightly, the way it does when he’s actually processing instead of formulating a comeback. “My first coach used to say you can’t teach anticipation,” he says, almost offhand. “Said you either read the ice or you don’t.”
“Is that where you learned to enforce?”
He glances at me sideways. Not combative. “Watch it, coach. You’re starting to sound interested.”
“I’m interested in why my player keeps taking penalties that are costing the team power play opportunities.” My voice remains even. “Understanding the pattern is part of the job.”
“Right,” he grins. A lazy, testosterone-laced grin. “The job.”
“The job.”
He holds my gaze for exactly one beat too long. Then he looks back at the screen. “Coach thought skill guys needed someone between them and the hits. He kept me around for it.” He tilts his head. “The idea stuck.” That’s the most he’s given me all week. Not flirting. Not a line.
“The idea isn’t wrong,” I say carefully.
“Protection is legitimate. Enforcement is legitimate. But you’re using a blunt instrument when you have the hands for precision.
” I pull up his stats in the second window.
“Your reaction time in the neutral zone is in the ninety-third percentile. You’re faster than you play. You know that?”
He goes still, recalibrating. “My coach called me a banger,” he says. “Useful. Not skilled.” The word useful strikes a chord. I recognize it. The word people use when they mean limited. When they mean keep him for the hits and don’t ask him to do more.
“Your last coach was mistaken,” I say. Silence.
He looks at me. Actually concentrating, not on the game between us or the clipboard distance.
Just at me, direct and a little undone. I realize I’m looking back in the same way.
I reach for the tablet. “Clip three,” I say, pulling us both back to the ice.
“Anaheim. Late second period. Watch the decision tree here, because this one you actually did right. Be proud of it.”
He takes a second. Then he leans back toward the monitor. “High praise,” he says. “Write that down somewhere.”
“It’s in your file.”
“You keep a good file on me.”
“I keep a thorough file on all my assignments.”
“How many of your assignments do you think about in the sauna?”
My pen stops moving. Just for a fraction of a second, but it stops.
I feel him catch it. “Clip three,” I say again.
“Watch his feet.” Max watches the screen, but his mouth twists.
Warmer than the grin. Something I don't have a word for and won't go looking. We get through four more clips. He asks two valid questions and one terrible one for the sole purpose of watching my expression. I answer the first ones and ignore the third. By the end, he has actual notes, and he’s taking them on his phone. Three plays circled and notes written in the margin I can’t read from here.
When I call it, he doesn’t move immediately.
“You said ninety-third percentile,” he says.
“I did.”
“You looked that up.”
“I look everything up.”
He turns to look at me. That question, unrelated to hockey again. “You looked me up.”
“I research every player I’m assigned to.”
“Before or after you found out it was me?”
I stand and begin gathering my notes. My hands are completely steady. A personal achievement. “Before,” I say. “I review all files the night before I get the assignment.”
“So you knew before you walked into that locker room.”
I pause, meet his gaze, because if I don’t, he’ll read the dodge. “That’s correct.”
He lets that sit for a moment. “And you still walked in.”
“It’s my job.”
“Toni.” Just my name. No heat in it. No grin.
I move toward the door. Control. Always control. “Phone call in coach’s office, then dynamic warm-up. Lateral shuffles, mobility sequence, sprint bursts.”
He salutes lazily. “Yes, ma’am.”
“No sarcasm.”
“That was respect.” His smile is genuine and gorgeous. His eyes never leave mine as he opens the door.
Last week, I thought the game would spark a more intense debate on the call, but it remained calm. It helped that Calloway got the instigator penalty. Still, Damian warns Max again. He instructs me to babysit him almost twenty-four seven to avoid anymore publicity, and we move on.
“So we’re attached at the hip for the foreseeable future, Amato.” He looks more than thrilled. I roll my eyes.
“Only until you stop behaving like a toddler on skates.” Back in the gym, “Start moving.” He does.
And annoyingly, he’s excellent. Explosive first step.
Clean footwork. Strong hips. Controlled deceleration.
Years of elite training. All of it hidden under swagger and bad decisions.
He moves through ladder drills with more speed than many players a decade his junior. I make notes in the journal.
“You’re watching me again,” he says between reps.
“I’m evaluating mechanics.”
“My mechanics appreciate the attention.”
I refuse to answer. “Next station. Reaction lights.” Colored panels line the wall. When one flashes, he taps it and returns to center. The first few rounds go smoothly. Then he starts showboating. Behind-the-back taps. Spins. A wink after every blue light. I stop the timer.
“Why are you like this?”
“Natural talent.”
“Performance addiction.”
“Same thing.”
I step closer. “No. You need an audience for everything.”
He folds his arms. “And you need control for everything.”
“That’s called competence.”
“That’s called fear.” The room stills. I should ignore it.
Instead, I say calmly, “Again.” He studies me for one beat too long. Then runs the drill seriously. No antics. No smirk. Fast. Focused. Sharp. When he finishes, he braces hands on his knees, breathing hard.
“There,” I say. “That player.”
He straightens slowly. “You only like me exhausted and obedient?”
Heat flashes through me so fast I turn away. “Push sled.” He grins.