Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Max Stevens
After I saw Antonia yesterday, two years blindsided me. I’ve taken hits from guys twice my size and stayed upright. One look at her — that’s the one that almost dropped me. Rockford. A rented house tucked in the pines. One reckless night when I was grinding in the AHL and waiting for my shot.
She had vanished before sunrise. No note. No number. Just the smell of her on my sheets and a hollow space beside me. I searched. Bars. Social media. Every variation of the name Antonia I could think of. Nothing. She disappeared. And now she walks toward the bench as if she owns the place.
Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail. But I remember it loose around my hands while she laughed in a hot tub under the Rockford pines. Black jacket fitted perfectly over sharp shoulders. NHL logo stitched on the sleeve. Slacks hugging curves I remember too well.
Her eyes sweep the rink. When they land on me, the world tilts. Emerald green. Sharp. Surprise flickers. Gone in a second. The professional mask locks back into place. “I’ll be working with you, Max Stevens. They’ve labeled you a high-priority situation.” Translation: pain in the ass.
“Jesus Christ,” Fuze mutters from behind me. “They sent a hot hall monitor.”
“That’s HR training for you,” Anthony says.
Lucas glides backward past me. “If Stevens behaves for a brunette, I’m requesting one too.”
“Shut up and practice,” I snap.
“I’m skating,” Lucas says. “Emotionally, I’m thriving.”
I skate up close, and then I stop by the boards. Ice sprays over her boots. Her perfume, up close, is a bright burst of citrus. “High-priority, huh?” I lean against the glass. “Sounds important. You here to fix me, An-ton-i-a?”
A muscle twitches in her jaw when I use her full name. But it’s because I prefer Antonia’s company. The one who let her dress fall to the floor and hopped into the hot tub without worrying about a swimsuit.
“Mr. Stevens.” She flips open her clipboard. “I’ve reviewed your file. Cross-checking. Roughing. Instigating. Your penalty log reads like a highlight reel.”
From center ice, Fuze whistles. “Ooooh. Maxie’s in trouble.”
I ignore him. Toni’s gaze stays locked on mine. “My job,” she continues calmly, “is to keep you on the ice instead of in the penalty box.”
I tilt my head. “You make it sound like I’m the villain.”
“Your reputation suggests otherwise.” She straightens her spine.
“You were talking to the refs?”
She arches a brow. “I train them.” That cuts through. Hard. “So, yes,” she says. “Your name comes up. Frequently.”
Two years ago she whispered my name as if it were something secret. Now she says it like it's already in the file. Coach claps his hands. “Morning sessions start today. Stevens, you’re first. Weight room after.”
I push away from the boards but hold her gaze. “Looking forward to it,” I say. “Maybe we can discuss my behavior over coffee.”
Her smile is razor thin. “This isn’t social hour.” Her expression goes flat. “And I don’t mix business with players.”
Ever.
Despite not being spoken, I still hear the word. The drills restart behind me, but my attention stays locked on her. I glide backward slowly.
“Call me Max.” She says nothing. But I catch the tension in her shoulders as I turn away. This is unfinished business.
And I don’t lose twice.
Plates clang as I load the bench in the weight room.
“Don’t piss off the hot trainer, Max,” Mac calls.
Lucas McKenna, our new center, listens from his stall with the patience of a man keeping score.
“Yeah,” Dude adds. “She might bench you for real.” I lie back on the bench and push the bar up through a clean rep.
Antonia Amato. Toni. The pull between us still sits under my skin. She left without a word. No note. Nothing. The door opens. I don’t have to look. I feel her. “Stevens.”
I sit up. “Max,” I correct.
She steps inside, clipboard tucked under one arm. All business. “Let’s begin.”
I wipe sweat from my forehead. “What’s the program? Anger management? Meditation?”
“We’re reviewing your penalties.” She taps the screen. “Last game against Toronto. You started a fight after a legal hit on your goalie.”
“Legal?” I scoff. “Knox was seeing stars.”
“The officials ruled it clean. And besides, the fans don’t call him Fort Knox for nothing. Calder can take care of himself.”
I stand. The space between us closes naturally. “You call him by his first name and not me?” She ignores my comment.
“You escalated,” she says.
“Escalation keeps people honest.”
“It also gets you suspended.” Her gaze lifts to mine. “You’re talented, Max. Speed. Hands. Instincts. But you chase chaos.” She called me Max. The word talented sits in my heart before I can decide what to do with it. “You’ve been watching me?” I ask.
“Part of the job.” Her cheeks flush faintly.
I grin. “Unfortunately for you, or fortunately?”
She ignores that. “Sit.” We review clips together. My hits. My fights. Every penalty dissected. “Here.” She pauses a clip. “You could have deked around the defenseman instead of checking him.”
“Deking’s for pretty boys like Trey.”
“Smart players adapt.” Our knees brush under the table. Neither of us moves. “You always this stubborn?” she asks.
“Only when someone’s trying to fix me.”
Her voice drops. “I’m trying to keep you playing.” Our eyes meet. The air tightens. Then she leans back. Professional distance restored. “My father is a referee,” she says. That surprises me. “Top tier,” she continues. “He officiates NHL games. Including yours. He hates players like you.”
I lean forward. “Players like me?”
“Reckless.”
“Effective.”
She rolls her eyes. “Unreliable.”
I smile. “Obviously not your perspective two years ago.” Her breath catches. There we go.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Rockford,” I prod. “Hot tub. Pine trees. You leaving before sunrise.”
She stands so fast that the chair scrapes. “That was a mistake. Mr. Stevens!” The words leave me gutted. “Ancient history,” she adds.
She says, “Mr. Stevens.” Like she doesn’t recall exactly how I sound when she says my name another way.
Like she doesn’t remember whispering Max into my mouth while I drove her wild.
Like she never breathed my name, slow and wrecked against my throat.
Not a hint. She once straddled my lap in a rented house outside Rockford and bit my shoulder hard enough to leave a mark I wore proudly for a week.
“Funny,” I drawl. “You used to skip the mister.” I stand too. Close enough now to see the pulse in her throat. “History tends to repeat itself.”
Her eyes flash. “Not this time.” She walks to the door and grips the handle. For a second she hesitates. Then she leaves. The door shuts behind her.
I lean back against the rack, breathing out. She could pretend that night never happened. But I remember everything. This game between us is only getting started.