Chapter 11 #3
The weighted sled scrapes across the turf while I track posture and output. Halfway through the third push, Scott Fusak and Anthony Dudek wander past the glass wall carrying breakfast burritos. They stop immediately.
Fuze presses both palms to the glass. “Ooooh, she’s making him work for it.”
Dude nods solemnly. “Respect.”
“Keep walking,” I snap.
Neither moves. Max strains through the final push and stands tall, chest heaving.
“You heard coach,” he tells them. “Show some class.”
Fuze cups his hands around his mouth. “Blink twice if she’s dom—”
I slam the blinds shut. Silence.
Max laughs so hard that he has to bend over. I should be furious. Instead, I’m fighting one too.
“Medicine ball slams,” I say. He wipes his face with his shirt, exposing a hard line of abs no woman needs before breakfast. My gaze dips before I can stop it. His smile turns slow and wicked. “Keep up the shenanigans and I’ll make you do edge work drills until you fall to your knees.”
“I’ll give you some edging that’ll make you get on your knees and beg for it,” he wiggles his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes, feigning indifference. He actually looks like he’s turned on during all the torture I’m inflicting. “You can also stop watching my mouth anytime,” he says.
I freeze. Because I hadn’t realized I was. He sees it. Of course, he sees it. The smug bastard. I recover instantly also noted by him. “Fifteen slams,” I say coldly. “Count aloud.”
He grabs the ball. “One.” Drives it hard into the turf. “Two.” Another slam. “Three.” He steps closer with each count. By fifteen, each number sounds filthy. He drops the ball and leans in. “Did I pass?”
I meet his gaze. “No.”
“You’re evil.”
“I’m qualified.”
From outside the blinds, Fuze shouts: “Did he get detention?”
Max never breaks eye contact. “Worse,” he breathes. “I’m interested.”
I set my iPad on the table and turn to the whiteboard. The fire inside me is not professional. Behind me, silence. The quality of silence that exists when someone is doing the forbidden. I turn back around.
Max is holding my tablet. He is not looking at it in any way that suggests he is doing anything to it. He is simply holding it with the serene expression of a man whose hands happened to find an iPad and whose intentions are entirely wholesome.
He hands it back when I reach for it.
We run the warm-up. We move through the ladder drill sequence. I pull out the tablet ten minutes later to access the penalty file, and I see it.
My background image is a golden retriever. Wearing a tiny referee uniform. Black and white stripes. Whistle around its neck. The dog has the expression of an animal that is taking its responsibilities very seriously.
Underneath it, in the caption field: your supervisor.
I look up.
Max is on the resistance band. Completing his reps with textbook form, eyes forward, the picture of an athlete who has definitely not spent this session sabotaging a league official's personal device. I open the settings menu, change the background, and return to the penalty file. I pull up the Vancouver clip and turn the screen toward him. My background is the golden retriever again. I check the settings. I look at him. He’s watching the clip with a small frown of genuine analytical attention, his head tilted, one finger pressed to his lips.
“How,” I say.
“Hm?”
“How are you changing it back?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I changed it. You changed it back. I did not see you touch it.”
He glances at the screen. At the golden retriever in the referee uniform. Back at the clip. “That’s a great photo,” he says. “Very authoritative.”
I put the tablet face-down on the table. Continue the session from memory. I have the clip data memorized because I retain everything. He will not win this.
At the end of the session, I write in his file: one additional infraction. Conduct unbecoming of a professional. I turn the notebook to show him.
He reads it. The corner of his mouth twitches. “Can I keep this?”
“It’s your file.” He pulls out his phone and photographs it.
“Tuesday we’re doing on-ice decision-making. Six-thirty. Don’t be late.”
“I’ll be early.” He says it to my back. I keep walking. I push through into the hallway without answering, and the door closes behind me, and I stand there for three full seconds in the fluorescent solitude before my feet agree to move.
His ninety-third percentile reaction time.
The word useful in his mouth. The way he took notes.
I’ve been doing this job long enough to sense when a player is being real.
When barriers vanish entirely. And I know what it costs me when I care.
I walk. Heels on the concrete. Even rhythm.
When I get to my car, I find it. My lock screen is his team photo again.
I sit there for a full minute before I start the engine.
Three days later, at seven a.m., Piper texts me with three crying-laughing emojis to inform me that the Conduct unbecoming of a professional infraction is on his nightstand. It’s framed. He has shown it to the entire team and at least two equipment managers.
I add a second infraction to his file. Display of official documentation without consent. He photographs that one, too.