Chapter 40
Chapter Forty
Toni
I stand in front of the mirror while Piper fusses with the back of my dress for the third time. “If you poke me with that pin again, I’m calling off the wedding,” I warn.
“You’re not calling off anything,” Piper says instantly. “You’re surviving Max Stevens in playoff season. Marriage is the easy part.”
Elena snorts from the velvet couch near the fitting room. “That man has reorganized the seating chart six times because he thinks Fuze and Anthony together near the open bar is a ‘liability.’”
“They are a liability,” Piper mutters.
I laugh under my breath, smoothing my palms down the satin over my hips.
My stomach flips so hard it feels like I swallowed a skate blade.
Outside the bridal shop window, downtown Chicago buzzes beneath a cold gray sky.
Somewhere farther down the street, I can hear the distant rumble of the ‘L’ train rolling through the Loop.
“Still nervous?” Elena asks softly.
“A little.”
Piper steps around me, finally satisfied with whatever she fixed. “About the ceremony or about the fact your fiancé is about to cry on center ice in front of twenty thousand people?”
“He is not crying.”
“All I’m saying,” Piper replies, “is I saw him practicing his speech in the kitchen at two in the morning while holding Christopher like a support animal.”
I press a hand over my mouth, already smiling too hard. “Oh my God.”
Elena grins. “Yesterday he asked Frank if waterproof mascara exists because he was ‘asking for a friend.’”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
That’s the thing about Max. Everybody sees the loud version first. The chaos.
The jokes. That guy who chirps the refs and gets himself thrown into the penalty box like it’s a second home.
Those who love him receive this version as well.
Someone who teaches six-year-olds to skate without making them feel stupid.
He was the one who stayed after every practice this year to run drills with the youth program until the rink managers shut the lights off.
The one who turned his entire career around because somewhere along the line, he decided he wanted to become someone worth looking up to.
Tonight, the Guardians Organization is honoring Max for his service this year in teaching the kids hockey.
And for his spectacular career turnaround.
We are in the second round of the playoffs, game seven and tied three games each with Boston.
Before the game, they will conduct a brief ceremony honoring Max.
They invited all the children to join him on the ice.
I can’t wait to see all of their eager faces and the crowd cheering for my man.
“The ceremony’s gonna destroy him,” Elena says knowingly.
I smile at my reflection, already picturing it.
The crowd on their feet. All the kids joining him on the ice in their tiny jerseys.
Chiara practically vibrating with excitement beside Luke and Christopher, while Max pretends he isn’t emotional about any of it.
My chest tightens. “He deserves it,” I announce.
Piper’s expression softens. “Yeah. He really does.”
I glance down at my dress. It’s nothing dramatic or huge.
Just silk with a flowy skirt that starts below my hips.
It’ll be the two of us, legal papers, vows, and the people we love most. The giant reception comes directly after.
Elena rises from the couch and smooths imaginary wrinkles from my skirt.
“You realize you’re marrying the human equivalent of a Labrador retriever with a slap shot. ”
“An orange cat in hockey skates,” Piper corrects.
I laugh again, warmth spreading through me. And suddenly, beneath all the playoff stress and wedding nerves, and chaos, one thing settles perfectly into place. I can already picture the rest of my life with him. Loud. Messy. Beautiful.
I'm wearing the wrong thing.
That's the first thought I have when I sit down next to Elena in the stands, which is absurd because I dressed deliberately this afternoon.
Dark slacks. A silk blouse in a light cream.
Heels that I've worn to a hundred professional events without a second thought.
I look appropriate. Polished. I look exactly like myself.
The problem is this isn't a professional event.
I understand this in increments. The first increment is the children.
They file out of the tunnel in their gear — forty-three of them, ranging from a boy who can't be older than five and is tilting slightly under the weight of his helmet, to a girl of maybe twelve who skates with the focused economy of someone who has been doing this since before she could read.
They're all wearing jerseys. Gold Coast Guardians jerseys, every one of them, with STEVENS and 72 across the back. Forty-three small people wearing Max’s name.
Chase is out there with Chiara and Christopher too.
We came here from the bridal store to watch the organization honor Max tonight before game seven.
I wanted to sit in the stands because I’m not good at making a public spectacle of myself.
I’m a woman executing a pre-set plan. The plan did not account for forty-three children in his jersey skating onto the ice.
The second increment is Piper. She's two seats down, Luke on her lap, and she's watching the ice with her hand pressed flat against her sternum.
The specific gesture of a woman holding something in.
I've heard of Piper Maddox holding herself together through Chase's hip surgeries while also taking care of three kids.
She is not a woman who folds. Her eyes are bright.
She's biting the inside of her cheek. The kicker is when she looks over at me and says, “If only my parents were here to see this!”
The third increment is Trey.
The team reveals the choice for alternate captain first, with the new ‘A’ emblazoned on Max’s jersey, eliciting cheers from the assembled crowd.
In that specific hockey way, the team on the bench bang their sticks on the boards to show solidarity for that means one of us, one of ours.
Trey is the one who puts the jersey on him.
Not a coach. Not management. Trey, who has been the first person to believe in Max for three seasons, and the last person to say so out loud, because that's what captains do.
He smooths the jersey over Max's shoulders and says something into his ear that nobody else hears, and Max's jaw shifts left.
The tell. The millimeter that means something is costing him and he won't show it.
Trey grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into the captain's hug — brief, hard, the hug of men who speak through contact because words take longer — and the building comes apart at the seams.
The fourth increment is my father.
He comes out of the officials' area, which I did not know was part of the program, and the arena goes loud.
Frank Amato. The most decorated official in the league's recent history, whose name the crowd knows because that's what thirty years of correct calls builds.
He crosses the ice to Max. They face each other in the center of the rink.
My father extends his hand. Max takes it.
They shake — not the three-second assessment grip, not the firm-brief conclusion of a business meeting.
A real handshake. The kind that means I see you and I am choosing to say so in front of everyone.
My father says something. Max nods once. My father nods back.
Twenty thousand people cheer for this, for two men who spent a year being each other's obstacle choosing to be something else instead, and I am sitting in the stands in my cream silk blouse with my hands in my lap and my head thinking something I don't have clinical language for.
The fifth increment is the smallest one.
Christopher breaks from the group of children clustered at the far blue line and charges across the ice with the specific grenade energy of a three-year-old who has identified his target and is committed.
He hits Max at approximately knee height.
Max catches him without looking — the same catch from the family skate in September, the same effortless adjustment of weight — and swings him up, and Christopher holds up his wrist and points to the superstar bracelet.
Max holds up his wrist. Matching bracelets.
The crowd in the nearby sections can't see what they're doing, but they react anyway to the shape of it — this enormous man and this small boy, wrist to wrist, checking something that matters between them and nobody else.
My phone buzzes in my bag.
I almost don't look. Then I do, because it's Talia and she only texts during working hours if something is either wrong or extremely interesting.
It's not wrong.
Talia:
Talia: the quiet one keeps finding reasons to stand near the media section
Talia: he has cheekbones Toni
Talia: I don't make the rules
I look up from the phone. Along the boards, where the media credential area meets the tunnel mouth, Talia stands with her camera lowered and her eyes on the ice. Lucas McKenna is six feet to her left. He is not watching the ceremony. He is watching the media section.
He notices me noticing.
He looks back at the ice immediately.
I put my phone away.
Elena's hand closes over mine on the armrest. I look at her. Her expression is very still in the way that means she is paying more attention than she wants anyone to notice. "Toni, I’ll be right back,” she says. Then she stands and points.
The scoreboard is running a tribute reel — Max at nineteen in AHL footage, the early NHL seasons, the penalty box footage I spent weeks analyzing in a film room while telling myself it was purely professional.
The Boston game. The Rourke reads. Clean plays that built upon the previous, less clean ones.
I look at the ice. At Max with Christopher on his hip, at my father shaking hands with the team's general manager, at Piper wiping her eyes, at forty-three children in Stevens jerseys milling around center ice with the chaotic joy of small people who have been told they can be on the actual NHL ice and have decided to make the most of it.
The second increment is Piper. She's two seats down, Luke on her lap, watching the ice with her hand pressed flat against her sternum.
The specific gesture of a woman holding something in.
Her eyes are bright. She's biting the inside of her cheek.
The kicker is when she looks over at me and says, "If only my parents were here to see this! "
The third increment is Trey. The team reveals the alternate captain, with the new 'A' emblazoned on Max's jersey.
In that specific hockey way, the bench pounds sticks on the boards — one of us, one of ours.
Trey is the one who puts the jersey on him.
Not a coach. Not management. Trey, who has been the first person to believe in Max for three seasons, and the last person to say so out loud, because that's what captains do.
He smooths the jersey over Max's shoulders and says something into his ear that nobody else hears, and Max's face shows me all.
The tell. The millimeter that means something is costing him.
Trey pulls him into a brief, hard hug, the hug of men who speak through contact. The building crumbles.
The fourth increment is my father. He comes out of the officials' area, which I did not know was part of the program, and the arena goes loud.
Frank Amato. The most decorated official in the league's recent history.
He crosses the ice to Max. They face each other at center.
My father extends his hand. Max takes it.
They shake — not the three-second assessment grip, not the firm-brief conclusion of a business meeting.
A real handshake. The kind that means I see you and I am choosing to say so in front of everyone.
My father says something. Max nods once. My father nods back. Twenty thousand people cheer for two men who spent a year as obstacles to each other, choosing something else instead. I sit in the stands, cream silk blouse, hands in lap, insides doing something I can’t describe.
The fifth increment is the smallest one.
Christopher breaks from the group of children and charges across the ice with the specific grenade energy of a three-year-old who has identified his target and is committed.
He hits Max at approximately knee height.
Max catches him without looking, just like he did during the family skate in September.
He swings Christopher up, and Christopher raises his wrist, pointing to the superstar bracelet.
Max holds up his wrist. Matching bracelets.
The crowd in the nearby sections can’t see, but they react to the enormous man and the small boy, wrist to wrist, checking something important between them.
I look at the arena.
The overhead lights are full game-day brightness, gold and white, the kind that make everything feel larger than it is.
This place tried to swallow me in September.
Badge and clipboard and twelve inches of professional distance, measuring things I told myself didn't matter.
Now my father is on that ice. My friends are in these seats. The arena didn't change.
I did.
I stand up.