Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Toni Amato
The suite level at Guardians Arena feels less like professional hockey and more like a very expensive daycare with alcohol. I realize this approximately four minutes after arriving.
“Elena,” Piper says, appearing beside us in a cream sweater and jeans, with one child balanced on her hip and another attached to her leg like a determined barnacle. “You made it!”
Elena lights up instantly. “I would like you to know I wore waterproof mascara in case the hockey becomes emotional.”
Piper blinks once. “You’re going to fit in beautifully here.”
“I already adore her,” Scarlett announces from the sectional near the glass. She’s sprawled sideways with impossible elegance, black boots crossed at the ankle, champagne in hand. “Anybody who treats sports like theater is my kind of woman.”
“It is theater,” Elena says. “They’re giant men on knives with unresolved emotional issues.” Harper Knox snorts into her wine. I remove my coat slowly, already regretting every decision that brought me here.
The suite itself overlooks the ice from center rink, floor-to-ceiling glass stretching across the entire front wall.
The arena glows beneath us in blue-white light while music pounds through the speakers and fans pour into the lower bowl carrying jerseys and beer and enough collective adrenaline to power several small countries. Elena walks directly to the glass.
Then stops. “Oh,” she breathes. The team is skating warmups.
Max circles through the neutral zone with easy, loose strides, helmet off, hair damp from pregame, tapping fists with Knox near the bench before flipping a puck over his stick without looking.
Elena slowly turns toward me. “Oh no,” she says.
“What?”
“He’s worse in motion.” Scarlett nearly chokes on champagne while laughing.
“I said the SAME thing,” Sophie says from the snack counter.
“I don’t know what any of you are talking about,” I say. Nobody reacts to this because nobody believes me.
Elena watches Max loop past the glass again. “That man looks like he’d help an old woman carry groceries and then get into a fistfight in a parking lot thirty seconds later.”
Harper points at her with complete seriousness. “That is the most accurate description of Max Stevens I’ve ever heard.”
Piper’s youngest suddenly reaches for Elena from her lap, and Elena takes him automatically, settling him against her hip without missing a beat. “You have excellent instincts,” Piper informs her.
“I raised three younger brothers and one ex-husband.”
Scarlett giggles and nearly spills her drink.
Must be on her second or third. The game hasn’t even started and already Elena has somehow integrated herself into the group like she’s been here for years.
“So,” Sophie says, leaning forward with the expression of someone about to commit violence for entertainment. “Tell us everything about Toni.”
“Absolutely not,” I say immediately.
Elena gasps. “Oh, I have material.”
“Treason,” I mutter.
“She organizes her pencils by emotional importance.” The room erupts.
“That is not true.”
“She labels folders alphabetically and by color.”
“Toni,” Scarlett says through laughter, “are you forty-five?”
“I’m organized.”
The arena lights dim suddenly. The crowd roars. Players skate onto the ice through smoke and strobing lights while music detonates through the building hard enough to shake the suite glass. Elena grips my arm. “This is insane.”
The Guardians explode onto the rink one by one to screaming fans.
Then Max appears last, behind Trey. The noise level somehow doubles.
And God help me, Elena notices everything immediately.
A wave comes from the crowd. Kids slam the glass as he skates by.
The easy swagger. Of course, the grin. Max notices a little kid near the glass.
Taps the glass with his stick and makes the kid lose his mind.
“Oh, that’s unfortunate. He’s charming without trying.
Those are the dangerous ones,” she says serenely beside me.
“He belongs here.” My chest shifts unpleasantly.
Because she’s right. Max glides backward near center ice, talking to Anthony while adjusting his gloves.
Then he looks up. Straight toward the suite.
Toward me without hesitation or searching.
Like he always knows exactly where I am.
His expression shifts. Just enough. Something warmer underneath the grin.
Possessive, or worse. Elena sees it happen in real time. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs.
I tear my eyes off him. “Don’t.”
“He looks at you like he’s already kissed you today.” Scarlett spits champagne into a napkin. Harper covers her mouth with both hands. Piper fully turns away laughing into Christopher’s hair.
“I hate every person in this room.”
“No, you don’t,” Sophie says cheerfully. “You’re trauma-bonded now.”
On the ice, Max skates toward the bench.
Still looking up here. Anthony follows his eyeline toward the suite.
His entire face changes. That idiot immediately elbows Max hard enough to nearly send him into the boards.
Even through the glass, I can tell Anthony is saying: Stop looking at her, you idiot.
Max shoves him back. Too late. Now half the bench is looking up here.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Elena watches the chaos below with fascination. “You brought me to a live soap opera.”
“And yet somehow still less dramatic than Thanksgiving with my family,” Harper says.
The anthem begins. Everyone stands. The arena falls silent.
Below us, the players line the blue line shoulder to shoulder beneath the lights.
Max removes his helmet. And against every instinct I possess, my gaze catches on him again.
The bruised mouth from Philly. The sharp line of his jaw.
The broad shoulders beneath the jersey. Then he glances upward one more time.
Finds me immediately. And smiles. Private.
Nothing like the cocky grin he gives the cameras. This one belongs to me.
The elevator ride up to Elena’s apartment feels significantly longer than eleven floors.
Possibly because Elena spent the entire drive home from the game narrating my psychological collapse in real time. “You smiled when they talked about him.”
“I did not.”
“You smiled so hard your entire face changed structure.”
“I was being polite.”
“You are never polite recreationally.”
Dad: Hey, honey. Your friend Elena invited me to dinner, see you tomorrow. I’m bringing the wine. Love Dad.
Now she stands beside me in the elevator mirror, adjusting her earrings while I glare at the floor indicator like it personally offended me.
“You invited my father to dinner,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Without asking me first.”
“I asked spiritually.”
“Elena.”
She smiles serenely. “Frank Amato has been a widower for twelve years. I am performing a public service.”
“You’ve never even met him.”
“I have met his daughter. The genetics are encouraging.”
The elevator dings. I exit immediately.
Elena’s apartment smells like garlic, wine, and the lemon candle she burns year-round regardless of season. She disappears into the kitchen humming to herself while I drop my bag near the counter and mentally prepare for what will absolutely become the most stressful dinner of my adult life.
My father lands in Chicago tomorrow morning for an officiating meeting with league operations. This dinner was supposed to happen tomorrow night. Supposed to. Instead, Elena decided she wanted to “test the chemistry” via video call tonight while she cooks.
Which is already horrifying enough before she says casually over her shoulder, “You should text your hockey player.” I nearly walk directly into the counter.
“He is not my hockey player.”
“Mhm.”
“There is no hockey player.”
“Mhm.”
I point at her with dangerous emphasis. “You are not allowed to flirt with my father and psychologically profile me at the same time.”
“I’m multifaceted.”
The buzzer sounds downstairs. I freeze. “Elena,” I whisper. “Please tell me that is not—”
“It’s grocery delivery.” I exhale. She narrows her eyes at me. “Interesting level of panic, though.”
I hate this apartment. Ten minutes later, Elena has Frank on FaceTime propped against the wine bottle while she stirs sauce and openly flirts with my father in Italian.
I sit at the island pretending I do not exist.
Frank looks unfairly distinguished on camera. Salt-and-pepper hair. Dark sweater. Reading glasses low on his nose while he talks to Elena like she’s been in his kitchen for years instead of three hours. Traitorous chemistry.
“You work too much,” Elena tells him.
“So I’m told.”
“By your daughter, who also works too much.”
“I learned from a professional.”
I close my eyes.
Frank’s gaze shifts toward me through the screen. Immediate softening.
“Antonia.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You say fine when you’re not sleeping enough.”
Elena points a wooden spoon at the screen triumphantly. “See? This is intimacy.”
“Please stop narrating my life.”
He laughs pleasantly.
Frank arrives twenty minutes early.
Of course he does.
My father has never been late to anything in his entire life, including his own wedding according to family lore, and Elena somehow still seems surprised when the buzzer rings while she’s only halfway through plating appetizers.
“Oh, God,” I mutter. Elena smooths both hands down her black sweater dress like she’s about to walk onto a stage instead of open the door to a retired NHL referee with terminal emotional restraint.
“You’re panicking,” she says brightly.
“I’m experiencing anticipatory regret.”
“That’s chemistry.”
“That’s not what chemistry is.”
The buzzer sounds again. Elena points her wineglass at me. “Behave.”
“I live here too.”
“That remains under review.” She glides toward the intercom before I can stop her.
“Frank?” she says into the speaker, voice instantly warmer.
The answering laugh through the crackling system is low and familiar enough to make me blink. “I was told there’d be dinner.”