Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Before the game, I’m halfway through explaining transition-zone data to a local beat reporter named Daniel when I realize he’s stopped taking notes entirely. “No, seriously,” he says, leaning against the table. “You should’ve been coaching years ago. The way players talk about you?”
“That feels statistically unlikely.”
He laughs. Too easily. “That’s your thing, right?” he says. “The terrifying professionalism?”
“I prefer structured competence.”
“I prefer terrifying professionalism.” I blink once. Okay. That was flirting. Subtle enough to deny. Clear enough to register.
Unfortunately, someone else registers it too. The energy in the room shifts. I glance toward the doorway automatically. Max. Still in partial gear after practice. Hair damp. Gloves hanging from one hand. Massive shoulders filling the entrance while his gaze locks directly onto Daniel beside me.
Oh no. Daniel notices too late. “Stevens,” he says casually.
Max nods once. Not casual. His expression is perfectly neutral in the way dangerous weather is technically neutral before tornado sirens start. “Toni,” he says. Just my name. But low. Possessive enough that heat immediately climbs my neck.
“I was finishing an interview,” I say.
His eyes flick to Daniel. “You done?”
Daniel straightens slightly. “I mean, if Toni’s done—”
“She is.” Holy hell. My pulse jumps hard enough to annoy me.
Daniel looks between us now with the dawning realization of a man accidentally stepping into active traffic. “Well,” he says carefully. “Great talking to you.” He leaves fast. Very fast. Silence.
Max stares after him another second before peering down at me. “What was that?” I ask discreetly.
“What was what?” His eyebrows crease.
“The territorial homicide energy.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You looked ready to fight a journalist.”
“He was flirting with you.”
The immediate answer knocks directly into my bloodstream before logic can intervene. “That bothered you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation or embarrassment. Just immediate honesty. Which is somehow worse. Max drops his gloves onto the media table. “He touched your elbow.”
I stare at him. “You noticed his elbow placement?”
“I notice everything around you.” His tell engages. “Unfortunately.”
That sentence should not do what it does to me. And yet. Catastrophic internal consequences.
The arena at game speed bears no resemblance to morning skate.
Saturday morning was all about hot chocolate and children shrieking victory over foam pucks.
Tonight is about beer, adrenaline, and twenty thousand people hoping for blood.
I stand in the tunnel with my credentials clipped to my blazer, tablet in hand, pulse steady in theory.
The Gold Coast Guardians take the ice through smoke and white light.
Crowd roaring. Bass shaking concrete. Names thunder through the bowl one by one.
When the announcer reaches Max Stevens, the sound doubles.
Interesting.
He skates through the tunnel of light like he was born in noise. Stick tapping once against the ice. Head high. No smile. Game face on, he appears built for something brutal. The other morning he caught children mid-fall. Tonight he gives the impression he will cause them.
Piper appears beside me, carrying nachos the size of a steering wheel. “You came.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re standing beside me eating arena cheese.”
“I haven’t touched it.”
“You’re thinking about it.” I take one chip. She grins.
Puck drop detonates the crowd again. The pace is vicious from first whistle.
Boston presses hard through neutral ice.
The Guardians answer with speed. Max hops over the boards forty seconds in.
My attention follows automatically. Annoying.
He forechecks smart. Angles the defenseman toward the wall.
Lifts the stick cleanly. Feeds Lucas McKenna in the slot.
Shot saved. I mark the play on my notes. Piper peeks.
“Are you grading him?”
“Tracking decisions.”
“You like him.” She beams, licking cheese off her finger.
“I like data.”
Second shift. Max receives a breakout pass near center.
One defender steps up. Max slips wide with elegant edgework most people miss because they're watching for the hit. He cuts inside. Draws coverage. Drops the puck blind to Trey entering late. Shot. Goal. The arena erupts. Trey points immediately toward Max. Recognition from teammates matters more than applause. I note it. Piper notes me noting it. “You’re doomed,” she says, chuckling.
“Eat your nachos.”
Boston retaliates midway through the first period.
Late shove after the whistle on Mac. Nothing severe.
Typical nonsense. Max sees it. He closes distance in three strides.
Chest to chest. Words exchanged. Ref steps in.
Whistle sharp. Crowd rises expecting violence, the way air before a storm goes quiet.
I hold still. Max could turn this ugly in seconds.
Instead, he backs off first. Skates away.
No extra shove. No slash. No escalation. I lower my tablet slowly.
Piper smirks. “He heard you in his head.”
“Impossible.”
“He’s housebroken now.” She giggles.
After the final horn, Piper squeezes my wrist.
“You’re in trouble.”
I keep my gaze on the ice.
“No.”
She laughs.
“Sweetheart, you already are. And I’m delighted to see it.”
I don't argue with her.
Two months ago I would have made the professional case. Tonight I don't have the words for it.
I watch Max crouch at the boards for a kid in the front row who has been leaning so far over the rail for the last ten minutes it's a structural concern.
Max signs the jersey without hesitation.
The kid grabs it with both fists like it's the most important object on earth. I'm watching because I want to.
That's new.