Chapter 4 #2
His image reappears on the screen when the tablet enters screensaver mode.
How did he change it again? I was holding the it the entire time.
When I glance up, he’s drinking from the squirt bottle, but his stare is zeroed in on me.
He winks and grins. Then he turns away in the opposite direction.
Now Max is putting on a show. Harder stops.
Sharper turns. Clipping the boards a little too close when he passes me.
Not enough to get called. Enough to get noticed. On purpose.
I blow the whistle. “Stevens.”
He turns immediately. Too immediately. “Yeah, coach?” he says, another grin already forming.
I step onto the ice fully now, closing the distance. “You’re done.”
The grin falters. Just a fraction. “Done what?” he asks.
“Done for this drill.” A beat. Then, “You’re benched.”
Silence. Pure, stunned silence. Then the eruption.
“Oh, shit—”
“No way—”
“She benched him—”
My focus remains on him. He studies me. Recalculating. He didn't expect me to follow through. “On what grounds?” he asks, voice subdued now.
“Control,” I say. “You don’t have it today.” That hits. Because it’s not about the drill. It’s about him. “You want to play reckless?” I continue. “You don’t play.”
Another beat. The team watches, completely invested now. Max exhales slowly. Then he smiles. Not cocky. Warmer than that, and sharper, and somehow more dangerous because of it. “Yes, ma’am.”
The reaction from the team is immediate.
“MA’AM?” Fuze howls.
“Max is cooked—”
“I’ve never seen this man listen to anyone.”
He approaches the bench like he was awarded something. I turn before the heat creeping up my neck gives me away. That smile was not supposed to land like that.
Practice resumes. But I feel it. The shift. The respect. They listen rapidly now. Move sharper. Pay attention. Even Max. From the bench, his pupils track me the entire time. Engaged. The way he observes film, like he's cataloguing.
When I finally call it, the guys peel off toward the locker room, still buzzing. “Best practice all week,” someone mutters.
“Worth it just to see Max benched,” another adds.
“Worth it?” Max calls after them. “I enjoyed it.” Laughter echoes down the tunnel. I gather my things, keeping my focus on my notes. On anything but him. Too late. His shadow falls across the ice in front of me. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he hisses.
I don’t look up. “I don’t play games.” A pause.
Then he moves in. “Could’ve fooled me.” I lift my gaze. He’s right there. Too close. It feels too familiar. It’s too much.
“You’re not special, Max,” I say evenly. “You’re a player with a problem I’m being paid to fix.”
His mouth curves. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He leans in slightly. Voice dropping. “Then why’d it feel like you enjoyed putting me in my place?”
My pulse stumbles. I hold steady. “Because you needed it.”
His expression darkens. “And if I say I didn’t mind?”
I step back first. Control. Always control. “Then you’re exactly the kind of player they assigned me to.”
I move past him before he can respond. Before he can see the crack. Because the truth? Benching Max Stevens should not have felt like that. Like losing control rather than exercising it. Like Rockford, still alive under two years of careful work.
Is this what every day will be now? Me sitting in my car after work, trying to regulate my pulse before I can drive home?
I drag in a slow breath. Another. My forehead against the wheel. A knock on the window startles me out of my stupor. “Whoa.” A petite, dark-haired woman stands beside my car, one hand lifted, concern written plain across her face. She motions for me to lower the window.
I crack it halfway.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m waiting for my brother and saw you sitting here. You okay? Need me to call someone?”
Her voice is warm. Direct. The kind that doesn’t perform kindness but simply offers it.
I manage a tired smile.
“Thanks. I’m okay. Rough day at work.”
She glances toward the arena doors, amused. “Ah. Hockey-related rough or regular rough?”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Both.”
“Yikes.” She leans one elbow on the doorframe like we’ve known each other longer than thirty seconds. “What’s the treatment plan?”
“I was thinking wine. Alone. Followed by pretending none of today happened.”
She gasps dramatically. “Absolutely not.” Before I can answer, she digs through her oversized bag, finds a pen, and points toward the clipboard on my passenger seat.
“Can I?” Too drained to question anything, I open the window further and hand it over.
She scribbles quickly, tears off a page from a notepad tucked inside, and hands both back.
“I’m Piper,” she says. “I’m having a night out tonight.
Casual. Loud. Zero emotional spiraling allowed.
” She extends her hand and I shake it, but she keeps it there.
“Phone, please, unlocked.” I shake my head and hand her my phone after pointing it at my face.
She enters her contact information and hands it back.
I glance at the paper. An address on Madison. A bar I recognize. “I’m Toni. Thanks for the invite. I’m not sure I’ll make it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. Questioning whether I’m always this difficult. “Nope. Wrong answer.” I blink. “Text me when you arrive.”
“When I arrive?”
“When,” she repeats. “Not if.” I laugh again, fuller this time.
Bossy. I like her already. She steps back from the window and hooks her thumb toward the arena.
“Trust me, Toni. You don’t want to spend tonight alone replaying whatever happened in there.”
If only she knew. “I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll come.”
She gives me a quick wave and disappears through the tunnel doors before I can argue.
I stare at her name in my contact list. Piper Maddox.
Piper Maddox. Chase Maddox's wife, which means she's connected to half the roster.
I do need to meet some new people. Discipline shaped my Chicago existence for two years.
School, internships, league certifications, along with workouts in the early mornings and sometimes late at night.
A schedule so full, it banishes loneliness by allowing no space for anything else.
My only real friends are Elena and Talia. Elena claims she’s not old enough to mother me, though she absolutely is. And Talia from school, who works enough hours for three people and sleeps like it’s an Olympic event. I glance at the address again. My phone buzzes.
Piper: Wear something fun. You look like a woman who owns black boots.
A startled laugh bursts out of me. Then another text appears.
Piper: Also if Max Stevens upset you, come twice as fast.
I stare at the screen. So. She knows.
And somehow … I’m smiling.