Officially in the Offensive Zone (Gold Coast #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Max Stevens

The penalty box might as well have my name etched into the glass. Max Stevens. Repeat offender. No apologies necessary.

Most nights the box gives me two minutes to breathe. Two heavy minutes where my brain drifts to Rockford. Pine trees. A hot tub in the mist. A woman who disappeared before sunrise.

I shove that memory away and dig my skate into the ice. Not today.

Tonight's different, one official seems to have it out for me.

He hates my guts in a real way, not the performative chirping I get from the guys who are just doing their job and enjoying it a little too much.

This is different. This is a man who has decided, with the authority of years in the job, that Maxwell Stevens is a problem that needs containing.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.

He’s been on me since warmups. I notice refs the way I notice defensemen, weight distribution, sight lines, which way they lean on a call.

This one moves with absolute economy. No wasted steps.

No unnecessary signals. He calls what he sees, and he sees everything, and he has spent this entire game seeing me.

Number forty-one. I clock the jersey number while I’m sitting in the sin bin watching the third period wind down.

He’s at center ice now, hands clasped behind his back, tracking the play with the unhurried attention of a man who saw the problem before anyone else knew there was one.

The call that put me here was clean. That's what costs me.

Not the two minutes, or the penalty. When forty-one raised his arm, he was right.

We both knew it. Being seen clearly, that's the part I hate. I don’t like feeling that.

I especially don’t like feeling it on a Tuesday in October while the Gold Coast Guardians are up by one and I’m observing from behind glass.

Fuze flies past the me on a breakout, and I track the play, and in my peripheral vision forty-one tracks it too.

He’s positioned perfectly. He always is.

When the puck goes offside, he raises his arm before the linesmen can register it, and the whistle blows, resetting the period.

He then glides back toward the center with a stillness that I've come to recognize as his neutral state.

Who is this guy?

I’ve seen him before. I know I’ve seen him before — league rotations mean the same officials cycle through, and his face has the particular familiarity of someone I’ve been on the wrong side of in a different building on a different night.

But I can’t place him exactly, and it sits in the back of my skull the way small wrong things do.

The door opens. Two minutes served. I step out.

Forty-one doesn’t look at me. He’s already reading the next play, the next potential situation, the next thing that needs his assessment.

As I pass him on my way to the wing, I get three seconds of proximity — close enough to note the silver in his dark hair, the particular set of his jaw, the way he holds himself as if the ice resurfaced itself for him specifically.

He glances at me.

Three seconds. Direct. The kind of expression that already has a verdict and he’s simply informing me of it.

Then he turns away.

I find Trey on the next shift, and we cycle through the neutral zone, and I forget about forty-one for the next four minutes because that’s hockey — the next shift matters more than the last penalty.

We win the face-off. Lucas buries one on a feed from the half-wall.

The building loses its mind, and I’m first over the boards to pile on, and by the time the celebration settles, we’re two up with forty seconds left, and the game is done.

In the tunnel afterward, Fuze is still going about the goal, his voice bouncing off the concrete.

“Clean look, clean finish, you’re welcome everyone—”

“You touched it with your skate,” Anthony says.

“My skate, my goal, my moment—”

I pull off my helmet. Trey falls into step beside me.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He gives me the captain’s stare. It’s the three-step assessment he’s been running on me since I was nineteen years old. “The box in the third.”

“Clean call,” I say.

He blinks. “It was. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I’m fine, Trey.”

He lets it go. He always lets it go when I say I'm fine in that register. I roll my shoulder and keep walking.

At the end of the tunnel, I glance back at the arena.

Forty-one is at the far end, talking to one of the linesmen, relaxed. He’s removed his helmet. Silver-dark hair. The jaw I noted before. The posture of a man who doesn't need to own the room — he just occupies it, and that's enough.

I file it away and go shower.

“Stevens!” Coach blows the whistle the following morning, and the sound of it bounces off every surface in the practice facility before settling directly in my skull.

Morning skate wrapped ten minutes ago. The guys are filtering toward the locker room in the slow, post-ice shuffle that means nobody wants to be first to leave because being first to leave means you weren’t committed enough, which is a fiction we all perform together.

I’ve been coasting the far boards running edges because my left skate felt off in the second period last night and I’ve been trying to figure out if it’s the blade or just me.

“Save the hero shit for game night,” Coach says, clipboard tucked under one arm, wearing the face he saves for conversations he's already done with. “Your PIMs are turning into a PR migraine. Another careless hit and you’ll face suspension. Clean it up.”

I coast toward him. Helmet shoved back so he can see my face. “Clean? Coach, that’s not in my contract.” I lean on my stick. “You look like you need coffee. Or a vacation.”

He doesn’t smile. He never smiles. “Cut the crap.” He taps his clipboard against the board. “We play Philly tomorrow. I need you on the ice, not rotting in the sin bin.”

The pads shift on my shoulders as I shrug. “Enforcers enforce. That’s the job. Hammer can vouch for me. I protect the skill guys.”

Trey Dillingham glides past, the captain’s “C” bright on his shoulder. “He’s not wrong, Coach,” Trey says. “But Max, try dialing it back from nuclear to a stern warning.”

Coach ignores him. “The NHL launched a new initiative. Player conduct and compliance.” His finger jabs into my chest protector. “High-risk players get supervision.”

“Supervision?” I laugh. “I’m twenty-two, not twelve.”

He folds his arms. “You’ve got twelve penalty minutes in two games,” he growls. “The league’s breathing down my neck about you.”

I tilt my head. “They’re noticing my charm?”

Coach doesn’t laugh. “The NHL’s sending someone,” he says.

“Sending someone for what?”

He jerks his chin toward the bench. “To babysit players who can’t stay out of the damn box.”

I bark a laugh. “Good luck with that.”

But Coach doesn’t move. His stare lingers. I think about forty-one on the ice last night. The three-second scowl. The way the call landed clean. I knew it. Sat with it. Didn't argue.

Maybe supervision isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

I don’t say that out loud. I have a reputation to protect.

“Good luck with that,” I say again, and skate away before he can see that I’m already thinking about it.

“Gotta stay loose,” I say, winding tape around my blade with manic precision. “Game day, baby.” I fire a puck across the room and it thuds off Anthony’s chest. “Tonight, let’s give the fans something to scream about.”

“Pretty sure they’ll scream when you hit the box, like usual,” Trey says.

“Hey, the box misses me,” I shoot back. “It’s called emotional support.”

The door cracks open. Someone yells, “The trainer from the League’s here for the refs!”

“Perfect,” Anthony mutters. “Another clipboard telling us how to play.”

Trey snorts. “Name’s Toni, apparently. Probably some guy with a whistle fetish.”

“Hope it’s not another fitness nut,” I say. “Last one tried to make us do yoga. Nearly killed me.” The door swings open, and the room goes dead. A woman strides in, dark blond ponytail tight, expression equally stern. The NHL logo on her quarter-zip is the only decoration she needs.

Antonia.

My hands tighten around my stick. No, that can’t be right. Two years collapse into one violent second. Rockford. The hot tub. Her laugh in the dark. The empty bed when I woke up.

“Maxwell Stevens,” she says, focus still on her tablet. “Still leading the league in unnecessary roughness?”

Seeing her hollows me out in a single, brutal heartbeat.

For months, she was a ghost I couldn't track down anywhere. But what kills me is how effortless she seems. While I’ve been drowning, she appears like she hasn’t missed a single night of sleep.

The grin slips clean off my face. I’m staring as if I forgot how oxygen works, and I can’t stop.

“Uh … not a guy,” Fuze whispers.

She steps in like she owns the place. Holding a clipboard, plus a tablet.

Sharp green eyes sweep the room, counting idiots.

“Morning, gentlemen. I’m Antonia Amato. You guys can call me Toni, if that’s easier for your caveman tongues.

” She flips a page. “I’m here to review the officials’ conditioning protocols and a special assignment.

Try not to faint at the sight of organization. ”

Tape dangles half-wrapped from my fingers. My mouth won’t close like an almost dead fish gasping for air.

Anthony elbows me. “Still breathing, Romeo?”

I ignore him, but he helps shake off the shock. Right now, all I want is to fuck with her, catch her off guard like she’s done to me. “So you’re the Toni who’s been emailing the team. Hell of a prank, makin’ us think you were a dude.”

Her brow arches. “Disappointed I don’t have chest hair?”

The room explodes. I lean in, my grin creeping back, remembering her feisty attitude in and out of bed. “Didn’t say that, sweetheart.”

Her voice remains flat. “Don’t call me sweetheart unless you’re about to pass out on my table. And if you do, I’ll let the rookie handle you.” The guys lose it. Trey nearly chokes on his protein shake.

Anthony hides his smile behind a bottle. “Poor bastard never saw it coming.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Guess I deserved that.”

“You guessed right,” Toni says, jotting a note.

“I thought they only called you in when the refs broke." I tilt my head and squint.

“I’m here because the league decided high-risk players need oversight. Guess who made the list?”

I bark a laugh. “High-risk? Babe, I’m a public service. Keeps the other teams honest.”

“Public nuisance, more like.” She taps her clipboard. “Your last three games: two fighting majors, a boarding call, and a high stick that nearly took out a rookie’s eyebrows. The NHL wants behavioral compliance. Guess who gets to monitor it?”

My grin widens. “So you’re my new warden? Careful, Toni. I look good in handcuffs.”

Her eyes narrow, but there’s color in her cheeks. “Keep talking, Max. Every word gets added to your file. Your existence qualifies as preventative maintenance. You’re my special assignment, lucky me,” she shoots back. The locker room howls.

I run a hand through my hair. “So what, you gonna bench me?”

“If I could, I would,” she says, tapping her tablet. “But apparently the League still lets you play as long as you stay out of jail. But practices are my domain.”

“Guess I’ll see you in sin bin, Toni,” I answer, leaning back with a reckless grin and a pop of my brows. “You can bring ice packs and judgment.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile.

“Oh, I’ll bring the judgment,” she promises, crossing her arms. “But you’ll have to beg for the ice packs.

” Then she points. “You bring self-control. That’ll be new.

” She turns and heads for the tunnel. Her perfume hits as she passes, the same one I smelled on my sheets for a week.

Trey whistles low. “She’s got you clocked.”

All I can do is stare at the door, my ears burning red. “Holy hell,” I mutter. “That’s Toni.”

Anthony grins. “Didn’t see that comin’?”

“Not even close,” I say. “I’m so confused. Am I supposed to be scared or in love?”

“Both,” Trey says, shoving me. “Definitely both.”

“Yeah,” Anthony says, pulling off his gloves. “You seem like you just took a hit you didn’t brace for.”

I stare at the door she walked out of. “I don’t mind it.”

A Note from the Author

If you just finished Chapter One and Rockford is already living in your head — good. As you've heard this is a second chance romance. Are you curious about the first time Antonia and Max were together?

That story has its own book, and it’s yours for free.

The Officially in the Offensive Zone Prequel is what happened in the pines. The hot tub. The night Antonia walked away before sunrise and Max spent two years trying to find her. It isn’t for sale anywhere.

GET THE FREE PREQUEL HERE and it will land straight in your inbox.

You can also use the QR code below.

This book stands completely on its own. But knowing what they left behind makes everything that follows hit harder. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy the sexy prequel.

I’ll be here when you get back.

— Theresa