Chapter Five
CHAPTER FIVE
SAbrINA
“I need a favour.”
My fingers stop typing, and I hold still for a moment as the words Chris just directed at me sink in. We haven’t really talked other than exchanging pleasantries over the last week, and now with only one day to go before my time here at the Toronto Sphere is over, he’s coming to me with this.
Spinning in my office chair to face him, I cross my arms over my chest. He looks nervous. Good.
“What kind of favour,” I hedge, not wanting to agree to anything in case he’s trying to throw shit work my way.
“Robert can’t make it to the Nighthawks game tonight. He’s…a little tied up.”
I scoff, pinching my nose and not even trying to hide my amusement. “Tied up” is department lingo for he’s either in jail or done something to piss off the executives.
“Jesus, Chris. That’s a big ask.”
He holds out his hands, pleading with me. “I know. I know . But please, we need someone covering the game. I’d owe you. Big.”
I keep him in suspense, drawing out the minute and making him sweat. Finally, when I think Chris is going to have an anxiety attack in front of me, I agree.
“Fine. It would be nice to spend my last night as part of the Sphere team out on location. I’ll do it.”
“Oh, thank God,” he exhales loudly. “You’re really saving me, Sabrina,” he calls over his shoulder, already having turned and pulled out his cell phone.
“Yeah,” I say to his back. “Sure.”
Turning back around, I rest my elbows on my desk and hold my head between my hands. It’s funny—the one thing I had been trying to avoid is the last thing I’ll do as part of this broadcast company.
***
The roar of the crowd outside the locker room area is loud enough to shake the walls, but I’ve learned to block it out. I glance at the clock again and adjust the mic in my hand. There are just a few minutes before the second period ends and the Toronto Nighthawks make their way past me. Shaking out my arms, I prepare myself for what must be done: I have to interview Max.
I’ve been doing this for years, but I’ve never quite gotten used to the way my stomach tightens when I do live interviews. I love the thrill of them, but there’s always the possibility of majorly fucking up. And tonight, I’m in a dangerous mood.
I’m mad at the Sphere for asking this of me on my last day working for them. I’m annoyed that Max is the one I’m going to have to interview. And I’m hungry from missing dinner because I had to prepare for this. Not a good combo.
It’s an anything could happen kind of night.
I glance at the door again, and a shiver runs through me as the buzzer goes off, signalling the end of the period. The energy in the arena shifts, a new kind of anticipation hanging in the air. My cameraman gives me a nod, and I mentally remind myself to stick to the talking points I’d worked so hard on this afternoon.
I can’t let whatever history between Max and me get in the way of a good interview. He’s a professional, and I’m just the one asking the questions.
Max emerges from the arena, his tall frame filling the doorway. Even though I’ve seen him a million times, there’s something about him tonight—maybe it’s the way he carries himself or how the light from the rink makes his eyes stand out—but for a split second, I forget about the animosity between us.
He meets my gaze as he walks toward me, and I can’t help the way my pulse quickens. A small, almost lazy smile forms on his lips.
“Sutton,” he says, his voice low, warm, and completely familiar.
“Daws,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral, though I can already feel the heat starting to creep into my cheeks. I swear, I never blush, and yet somehow, every time he looks at me, it happens without fail.
He steps into the frame, giving the camera crew a quick nod before turning his attention back to me.
“Going into third period, how are you feeling?” I say, trying to focus on the task at hand. “Your team’s up by two goals. But it’s been a fierce game.”
Max’s grin widens, and I can’t help but notice the way his smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Feeling great. We’re playing good hockey,” he says. “We’re staying tight on defense and keeping it simple—get the puck deep, force them into mistakes.”
“Deep, huh?” I can’t help but raise an eyebrow. It’s the standard response from every player, but with Max, I know there’s more behind it than just some well-worn cliché. “Is that really all you’ve got?”
Max chuckles, the sound easy and relaxed. “It works. The simple stuff. You don’t always need to reinvent the wheel.”
I cross my arms over my chest, leaning slightly into the mic. “Maybe, but you’ve always liked to take chances before. I thought you’d have something flashier to say than ‘get the puck deep.’”
Max meets my eyes, and there’s that hint of mischief I’ve always remembered. “I can get flashier if you want, Bean,” he says, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “But when you’re ahead, you don’t mess with what’s working.”
“Don’t call me Bean on live TV, Max Speed ,” I mock, holding his gaze for a beat too long. I’m not sure if I’m being subtle or if I’m just fooling myself. There’s something between us that I can’t shake, even if we’ve both buried it under years of distance and professional boundaries.
“You took a hit from Jensen not too long ago. How’s your shoulder? Do you think that’s the reason your shots are off tonight?”
The playful tone slips from Max’s face for a moment. His expression hardens slightly, just enough for me to catch it. “Fairfield is on point tonight, but we’ll get another past him,” he says, his voice steady. “And my shoulder is fine.”
There’s a pause between us, a beat where the noise of the arena fades into the background. I realize, for the first time in a while, that this is just us—Max and me, like when we were kids. That’s what’s always been the hardest part: no matter how much time passes, it still feels like we’re in the same place.
“You’ve always been the type to get back up after a hit,” I say, softening my voice, though I can’t quite ignore the little twinge of something in my chest. “You always hated when anyone thought you couldn’t handle it.”
Max’s gaze softens for just a moment, a brief flicker of something more vulnerable before he masks it with that cocky grin of his. “Maybe. I remember you telling me to stop being such a show-off when we were kids too.”
The words hit me harder than I expected, and for a second, I freeze. Of course he remembers. It’s impossible for me to forget all the times we spent together, racing around the rink, pushing each other to the limit. But I didn’t expect him to bring it up now, not in this moment.
I laugh, though it feels a little too tight. “I did try to get you to tone it down. But you never listened. Still don’t, it seems.”
Max’s smile widens, though there’s something almost fond in it. “You were always the sensible one. I guess some things don’t change.”
A little flutter runs through me at his words. I’ve always hated the way he makes me feel like I’m sixteen again—like we’re back on that rink in the dead of winter, racing toward the goal, laughing and teasing. But I’m not sixteen anymore, and neither is he. The memories are sweet, but they don’t change what’s standing in front of me now.
“Guess we’ve both changed a lot since then,” I say, trying to keep the conversation neutral, my voice just a touch more serious than before.
Max seems to sense the shift in tone. He takes a step back, his hands resting casually on his hips. “Yeah, I guess we have. But I still remember how you used to make fun of me for being too cocky. You still think that’s true?”
I hesitate, watching him for a long moment. His expression is casual, but I know he’s waiting for my answer. The truth is, I don’t think he’s too cocky—not anymore. He’s confident, sure, but there’s a lot more behind those eyes than he lets on.
“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “Maybe I’ve just gotten used to it.”
Max’s eyes glint with something like amusement, but there’s a warmth to his smile that takes me off guard. “Well, don’t get too used to it, Sutton. I’ve still got a lot of tricks up my sleeve.”
I can’t help the small smile that plays at my lips. “I’ll be sure to keep an eye on you. Don’t want to miss anything.”
The conversation feels like it could stretch on forever, but the clock reminds me that the third period is just about to start. I clear my throat, shifting into professional mode again. “Alright, well, thanks for your time, Max. Let’s see if your strategy holds up through the third.”
Max nods, giving me one last lingering look before he starts to head back toward the locker room. “You’ll see. Don’t worry.”
As he walks away, I take a deep breath, trying to steady the pulse that’s still racing in my chest. The game’s far from over, but somehow, I know this interview isn’t either.