Chapter 12
Max
The office of Coach Sullivan smelled of stale coffee, old leather, and disappointment.
It was a smell I knew well—not from this office, but from my childhood.
It was the smell of my father sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of overdue bills, the smell of my mother explaining why she had bought another set of porcelain dolls instead of paying the electric bill.
It was the smell of failure.
I sat in the hard plastic chair opposite Coach’s desk. My hands were resting on my knees, perfectly still. My spine was straight. I was the Warden.
But inside, the walls were crumbling.
"Look at this, Vane," Coach said, sliding a tablet across the desk.
I looked.
It was a clip from yesterday’s practice. I was in the net. Jinx was coming down the wing. He deked. I bit on the fake. He roofed the puck over my shoulder.
"Again," Coach said, tapping the screen.
Another clip. A rebound I didn't clear. A slow reaction to a slap shot.
"And again."
A moment where I was looking up at the stands—searching for Imogen—instead of tracking the puck drop.
Coach leaned back in his chair, the springs groaning.
"You're drifting," he said. "Your save percentage in practice has dropped three points in a week.
Your reaction time is down .04 seconds. That doesn't sound like much to a civilian, Max. But to a goalie? That’s the difference between a save and a goal.
Between a win and a loss. Between the NHL and a beer league. "
I swallowed hard. My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper.
"I had a bad week," I said. "Midterms. The hit from Kowalski."
"The hit was clean," Coach dismissed. "And your cognitive tests are clear. Physically, you're fine. Mentally?" He tapped his temple. "You're gone. You're somewhere else."
He pulled a file folder from his drawer.
"The GM from Montreal is flying in tonight. He's coming to the game against BU tomorrow. He's not coming to watch you play, Max. He's seen the tape. He knows you can play."
He opened the folder. It was empty.
"He's coming to see if you can lead. He's coming to see if you have the mental fortitude to be the guy. The guy who doesn't crack. The guy who doesn't let a blonde in the stands turn his brain into mush."
My jaw tightened. "Leave her out of this."
"I can't," Coach said bluntly. "Because she's the variable that changed.
You were a machine for three years. She shows up, and suddenly you're doing laundry in the dark and missing morning skate.
You think the scouts don't know? They know everything.
They know what you ate for breakfast. They know who's warming your bed. "
He leaned forward, his eyes hard.
"If you blow this game tomorrow... if you let in soft goals... Montreal walks. And if Montreal walks, the other teams will smell blood. You'll drop in the draft. Maybe out of it entirely."
He let the silence stretch.
"What's the plan B, Max? You gonna move back home? Help your mom organize her... collection?"
The threat hit its mark. A cold, visceral spike of fear drove itself into my chest.
Go back to the hoarding house? Go back to the chaos? To the life where I was suffocating under the weight of other people's mess?
"No," I whispered.
"Then fix it," Coach said. "Bench the girl. Lock it down. Be the Warden. Or get used to the view from the cheap seats."
I walked out of the arena into the blinding white of a snowstorm.
I didn't feel the cold. I was numb.
Bench the girl.
The words echoed in my head, bouncing around like a puck in an empty rink.
I got into my truck. I didn't start the engine. I just gripped the wheel until my knuckles turned white.
I had worked for this my entire life. Every morning skate. Every protein shake. Every skipped party. Every dollar saved. It was all for this one shot. To get out. To be safe. To be in control.
And I was risking it all for... what?
For soft skin? For the smell of peonies? For the way she looked at me when I touched her?
I pulled out my phone.
Three texts from Imogen.
Imogen: Hey! Study session tonight? I promised I’d model for you... ;)
Imogen: Also, I bought pizza. And by pizza, I mean I ordered it. I’m a provider.
Imogen: Are you okay? Jinx said Coach looked mad.
I stared at the messages.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to bury my face in her neck and forget about Montreal and save percentages and my mother’s hoarding.
But that was the weakness. That was the drift.
I typed a reply.
Max: Can’t tonight. Extra film study. Don’t wait up.
I deleted it. Too soft.
Max: Stay in your room tonight. I need to focus. Big game.
Sent.
I threw the phone onto the passenger seat.
I started the truck. I didn't go home. I drove to the 24-hour gym on the edge of town. The one that smelled like rust and old sweat. The one where no one knew my name.
I was going to punish the weakness out of my body.
Five hours later, I was broken.
I had run five miles on the treadmill at an incline that made my lungs burn. I had lifted until my arms were shaking so badly I could barely hold the water bottle. I had done reaction drills with a tennis ball against the concrete wall until my vision blurred.
It was 11:00 PM.
I drove home.
The apartment was dark when I walked in. Good. She had listened.
I walked into the kitchen. There was a pizza box on the counter. A note on top of it.
Eat. You get cranky when you're hungry. - Im
I stared at the note. I crumbled it up and threw it in the trash.
I didn't eat the pizza. Pizza was slow. Pizza was sluggish.
I drank a protein shake. I took a cold shower.
I walked down the hallway to my room.
Her door was closed. A sliver of light showed underneath. I could hear music—faint, soft jazz. She was drawing.
I stood outside her door, my hand hovering over the knob.
Every instinct in my body screamed at me to open it. To go in there. To find comfort.
Bench the girl.
I dropped my hand.
I went into my room. I locked the door.
I laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the jazz through the wall.
I was the Warden. I was in control.
So why did it feel like I was the one in prison?
The next morning was brutal.
I woke up at 5:00 AM. I didn't snooze.
I walked into the kitchen. Imogen was there. She was wearing one of my t-shirts and making coffee.
She turned when I walked in, a smile lighting up her face.
"Hey stranger," she said. "I missed you last night. Did you sleep in the gym?"
"Basically," I grunted, opening the fridge to grab my pre-game meal prep.
"I saved you pizza," she offered. "It’s cold, which is arguably the best way to eat pizza."
"I can't eat that garbage on game day," I snapped.
The smile faltered. "Okay. Sorry. Do you want eggs?"
"I don't want anything from you, Imogen," I said, slamming the fridge door. "I need you to stay out of my way today. The GM is coming. I need to be in the zone."
She flinched. She set down the mug she was holding.
"Max," she said softly. "I get it. You're stressed. But you don't have to be a dick."
"I'm not being a dick," I said, turning on her. "I'm being a professional. Something you wouldn't understand, since your daddy pays for your mistakes."
The words were out before I could stop them. They were cruel. They were unfair. They were exactly what my father used to say to me when he was angry at the world.
Imogen went pale. She stepped back, her hand going to her throat.
"Wow," she whispered. "Okay. Message received."
She turned and walked out of the kitchen.
I stood there, vibrating with self-loathing.
Good, a dark voice in my head whispered. She’ll stay away now. You’re safe.
I ate my eggs. They tasted like ash.
The Game.
The arena was packed. The energy was frantic.
BU was a fast team. They played a north-south game, aggressive forechecking, lots of shots.
I was in the net. I was dialed in.
The first period was a shutout. I stopped twelve shots. I felt good. The wall was back up.
The second period, things got messy.
Our defense broke down. A turnover at the blue line. A 2-on-1 rush.
The BU forward passed. I slid across. I made the save—a sprawling glove snag that brought the crowd to its feet.
I looked up at the VIP box.
The GM from Montreal was there. He was watching. He nodded.
But next to him...
Imogen wasn't there.
Her seat was empty.
My stomach dropped.
Where is she?
I scanned the stands. The student section. The tunnel.
She wasn't there.
I had pushed her away. I had told her to stay out of my way. And she had listened.
Focus, Vane.
The puck dropped.
The game continued. But the silence in my head was wrong. It wasn't the focused silence of the zone. It was a hollow, echoing silence.
Third period. Tie game. 2-2.
Five minutes left.
A scrum in front of the net. Bodies everywhere. I couldn't see the puck.
I dropped to my knees, trying to cover the bottom of the net.
Someone fell on me. A skate blade clipped my shoulder.
I pushed up.
The puck squirted loose.
A BU player slapped it.
I reacted. But I was .04 seconds too slow.
The puck sailed over my shoulder. Ping. Into the net.
Goal.
The buzzer sounded.
We lost. 3-2.
I stayed on my knees on the ice for a long time. The crowd was groaning. My teammates were slumped.
I looked up at the VIP box.
The GM was closing his notebook. He wasn't looking at me. He was shaking Coach’s hand and leaving.
I had failed.
I sat in the locker room long after everyone had left.
I hadn't showered. I was still in half my gear.
Coach came out of his office. He looked tired.
"He liked the glove save," Coach said.
"And the goal?" I asked, looking at the floor.
"He said you looked slow on the recovery," Coach admitted. "He's not passing, Max. But he's not committing either. He wants to see how you bounce back. Next week. Playoffs."
"Right," I said. "Bounce back."
Coach clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Go home, Vane. Get some sleep. And fix whatever is going on in your head."
He left.
I showered. The hot water burned my skin, but it couldn't touch the cold inside.
I drove home.
I didn't want to go in. I didn't want to face her. I had insulted her. I had pushed her away. And then I had lost.
I was a failure and an asshole. A winning combination.
I unlocked the door.
The apartment was quiet.
"Imogen?" I called out.
No answer.
Panic seized me. Had she left? Had she moved back to the dorms? Had I finally driven her away for good?
I ran down the hall. Her door was open. Her room was empty.
I checked the living room. Empty.
Then I saw the light under the bathroom door.
I pushed it open.
Imogen was sitting on the floor, leaning against the tub. She was wearing her pajamas. Her knees were pulled up to her chest. She was drawing on a sketchpad.
She looked up when I entered. Her eyes were red. She had been crying.
But she didn't look angry. She looked... sad.
"You lost," she said softly.
"Yeah," I rasped. "I lost."
I slid down the doorframe until I was sitting on the floor opposite her. The bathroom tiles were cold.
"I wasn't there," she said. "I stayed away. Like you wanted."
"I know," I said. "I looked for you. When I couldn't find you... I lost the puck."
She put down the sketchpad.
"So I'm a distraction when I'm there," she said. "And I'm a distraction when I'm not there."
" apparently," I rubbed my face with my hands. "I'm a mess, Imogen. I'm drowning."
"I know," she whispered.
She crawled across the floor. She moved between my spread legs. She wrapped her arms around my torso and rested her head on my chest.
"I'm sorry about what I said," I choked out. "About your dad. It wasn't true. I was just... scared."
"I know," she said again. She rubbed my back, right over the tension knots. "You lash out when you're scared. It's your defense mechanism. You're a porcupine, Max."
"I lost the game," I said, the weight of it crushing me. "Montreal might walk."
"Then let them walk," she said fiercely, pulling back to look at me. "If they can't see how good you are because of one goal, they don't deserve you. Someone else will."
"You really believe that?"
"I believe in you," she said. "More than I believe in anything. Even when you're being a dick."
I looked at her.
She was the only thing in my life that wasn't transactional. She didn't want me to win for the money. She didn't want me to win for the status. She just wanted me to be okay.
I realized then that Coach was wrong.
She wasn't the variable that was making me weak.
She was the fuel.
Without her, I was just a machine that was running out of power. With her... I was human. And humans could adapt.
"I need you," I whispered. "I need you at the games. I need you in my bed. I can't do this without you."
"Good," she said, leaning in to kiss me. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
She kissed me—a slow, deep, healing kiss that put the broken pieces of my confidence back together.
"Now," she said, pulling back. "Stand up. You smell like a locker room, and I refuse to sleep with a man who smells like wet pads."
"Yes, Ma'am," I smirked weakly.
She stood up and offered me her hand.
I took it.
I stood up.
I was still the Warden. I was still fighting for my life.
But I wasn't fighting alone anymore. And that made all the difference.