Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Toni Amato
The next one is an away game in Washington. I ride with the team on the bus because I’m supposed to monitor Maxwell Stevens. It’s mandated by Damian Price, NHL Player Conduct supervisor. I am two rows ahead of him, and I am working, and I’m absolutely not aware of exactly where he is sitting.
Fourteen minutes into the drive, a figure appears on the headrest in front of me.
A swan. Made of pre-wrap. White athletic tape, folded with surprising precision into a shape that is unmistakably a swan, placed on the headrest where I will see it in my peripheral vision without him having to say a word.
I keep working. Three minutes later: a hat.
Also, pre-wrap. Structured. Brimmed. Placed beside the swan.
I keep working. Later, perhaps one resembling a Zamboni.
The craftsmanship has declined somewhat on this one, but the intention is clear. I keep working.
From behind me, low enough that only I can hear: “You haven’t looked.”
“I’m working.”
“You’ve seen them, though.”
“I’ve noticed some objects in my peripheral vision.”
A pause. “The Zamboni took four minutes.”
“I’m sure it did.”
“The neck on the swan is structurally sound.”
“Congratulations.”
Silence. Then, from further back: “Mac.”
Lucas McKenna’s voice, flat and uninflected: “You owe me twenty dollars.”
“She didn’t look.”
“I said sixty seconds. It’s been twenty minutes.”
“The swan should have worked.”
“Pay me, Max.”
The sound of movement. Cash changing hands. I hear this and I write another line in my report, and I do not smile. I do not smile. My reflection in the dark window catches me anyway. I adjust my angle.
The bus breaks down somewhere in rural Pennsylvania.
Not dramatically. Nothing catches fire. Nobody dies.
The engine simply produces a sound that appears deeply concerning to the driver, followed by another sound that appears even more concerning, and fifteen minutes later we're sitting on the shoulder of the interstate while twenty-three hockey players offer increasingly unhelpful mechanical advice.
"I think it's the transmission," Knox says.
"You think every vehicle problem is the transmission," Anthony replies.
"Because it's usually the transmission."
"It's never the transmission."
The driver wipes his forehead with a handkerchief.
I discreetly move twenty feet away and begin calling the transportation company.
An hour later, the replacement vehicle arrives.
The moment I see it, I know we're in trouble.
The original vehicle had been designed for professional athletes.
This one appears to have been designed for middle-school field trips and possibly livestock.
The driver counts heads. Then counts again. I already dislike where this is going. "There are twenty-two passenger seats." Silence. "We have twenty-three people." More silence.
Anthony slowly removes his sunglasses. "Interesting."
"No," I say immediately.
"I haven't even said anything yet."
"You were about to."
"I absolutely was.”
Trey steps forward before the situation can deteriorate further.
"Okay. We can figure this out."
Unfortunately, everyone immediately begins trying to figure it out. Suggestions are made. Most are terrible. Lucas proposes rotating passengers every thirty minutes. Fuze suggests drawing straws. Knox suggests leaving Anthony behind. Anthony seems offended by how quickly everyone agrees.
I climb aboard the bus while the debate continues and immediately discover a second problem.
Every seat has already been claimed. Players are spreading equipment bags across entire rows.
Others are pretending to be asleep, despite the fact that we have not yet departed.
I stop in the aisle. There are no seats left. Not one.
Every head turns toward me at once, and for one horrifying moment I seriously consider whether stepping into traffic on the side of Interstate 90 would be less embarrassing than whatever is about to happen next.
The conversation dies.
I have spent my entire professional career managing NHL players. I have never trusted any of them less than I do in this moment. "There has to be another solution," I say. Nobody responds. The silence is suspicious.
Then Anthony's eyes widen. "Oh."
I point at him. "No."
"Toni doesn't have a seat."
"I am aware."
Anthony looks delighted. Fuze immediately cracks up. Not because anything has happened. He can smell it coming. I hate him.
"What?" Trey asks.
Anthony points toward the back. Several heads swivel.
Including mine. Max is sitting by himself in the only row next to the emergency exit that has one seat instead of two.
Of course, he is. The traitor. The absolute traitor.
His expression is pure innocence. "No problem," he says. "Toni can sit with me."
Silence. The kind that happens when everyone witnesses something at once. I stare at him. "You cannot possibly be serious."
“You’re in a row with one seat.”
"Yes."
"And your proposed solution is that I sit on your lap for three hours."
"I am proposing an efficient transportation adjustment." The laughter begins immediately. Anthony folds in half. Lucas disappears in front of him. Knox is openly recording this on his phone.
"Delete that."
"No."
"Trey." The captain closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he somehow looks even more tired.
"Nobody say another word." Unfortunately, nobody listens.
Fuze raises a hand. "I have a question."
"No."
"Can we assign seats alphabetically?"
"Why?"
"So Max has to explain why he's volunteering before we get to T." The entire team erupts. Max leans back comfortably. He has the nerve to look amused.
"You all done?"
"Not remotely," Anthony says.
I remain standing in the aisle because there is no universe in which I am sitting on Max Stevens's lap in front of his entire hockey team. The transportation coordinator climbs aboard behind us. "What's the holdup?"
Twenty-two people point at me. I briefly consider a career change. The coordinator blinks.
"Only one seat short?"
"Apparently."
He shrugs. "Then somebody doubles up." My eyes close. Of course. Of course this is happening.
"Toni." I open my eyes. Max's voice is reserved now. The teasing is gone. He shifts slightly and looks up at me.
"You've been standing for twenty minutes. Just sit down." Everyone is watching. Waiting. Anthony appears moments away from spontaneous combustion.
With all the dignity available to me, which is very little at this point, I move toward the space beside Max.
The seat is barely wide enough for one person.
It is certainly not wide enough for two.
I sit sideways on the very edge, trying to create as much distance as physics allows.
The attempt lasts approximately three seconds.
The driver pulls onto the highway. A bump sends me directly into Max's chest.
Laughter detonates behind us. I close my eyes. "I hate every person on this bus."
"That's fair," Max says. His voice is warm. Too warm. Every inch of contact between us is suddenly very loud. I shift. His hand automatically steadies my waist before he catches himself. The touch lasts less than a second. It feels much longer. Neither of us speaks or looks at the other.
From three rows back, Fuze's voice drifts forward. "For the record, this is the greatest road trip we've ever taken."
"Shut up, Fuze,” everyone says.
"See?" Anthony says. "Now they're finishing each other's sentences." The bus explodes again. Even Trey laughs.
And somewhere beneath the embarrassment, beneath the frustration, beneath the growing awareness of Max's arm braced protectively behind me every time we hit a bump, danger threatens to emerge.
Happiness. Which is unfortunate. Because happiness around Max Stevens has historically led to terrible decisions.
We arrive at the hotel, and some fans are waiting for the team to exit the bus. Mostly women in tight clothes.
I’ve seen the puck bunnies before, but this time there’s a twinge.
An unpleasant one. It settles low beneath my ribs before I can suppress it.
As cameras flash from behind the barricades, the door folds open ahead of me.
The women nearest the rope line brighten immediately at the sight of the players climbing down the steps.
“Lucas!”
“Knox, over here!”
“Oh my God, Max!” That one comes with an actual squeal.
Unfortunately, I look up in time to see why.
Max steps off last, behind Trey, black suit fitted obscenely well across his shoulders, duffel bag slung over one arm.
His hair is not styled but the way it looks after he runs his fingers through, jaw shadowed darker than usual beneath the hotel lights.
He smiles automatically toward the crowd, and the entire front row of women visibly melts like somebody opened a furnace door. Honestly. Fair. But still annoying.
“Stevens!” a blonde calls loudly. “You gonna ignore me again tonight?” Max keeps walking.
The blonde either mistakes this for encouragement or lacks survival instincts because she ducks beneath the rope line before security can stop her.
She reaches him near the hotel entrance with the confidence of a woman accustomed to being received favorably.
“Seriously?” she says, touching his arm. “You disappeared after Philly.”
I stop walking. Max glances down at her hand on his sleeve like he’s mildly confused by its existence.
Then his eyes lift. Straight to me. The easy public grin disappears first. Then the casual hotel-arrival charm goes with it.
Focused. That's all. Which is somehow worse.
The blonde follows his gaze toward me, standing near the curb with my credentials around my neck, and suddenly realizes she may have misread the situation catastrophically.
“Well,” she says with a nervous giggle, “call me sometime?”
Silence. Max keeps looking at me. “I’m busy,” he says finally.
She smiles tighter. “Doing what?”
His gaze never leaves mine. “Trying not to ruin my life.”
My pulse stumbles hard. The blonde blinks. Anthony, unfortunately, chooses this exact moment to walk between us carrying two garment bags and the energy of a raccoon discovering fireworks. “Oh my God,” he breathes. “That was the hottest and most emotionally concerning thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Keep walking,” Max says.
Anthony absolutely does not keep walking. Instead, he looks between us with naked delight. “Toni, did you hear that? Because if not, I recorded it emotionally.”
“I hate this team,” I mutter.
“You’re joining the family, though,” Anthony says brightly.
Security finally redirects the blonde back behind the barricade while Max moves toward the hotel doors.
He slows down beside me. Walking close without touching.
Which somehow feels more intimate now. “You okay?” he whispers.
I should say yes immediately. Instead, my eyes betray me and flick once toward the crowd of women still openly staring at him.
Max notices. Of course, he notices. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly. “Toni.”
“It’s nothing.”
“That looked like jealousy.”
“It was observational irritation.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It is to me.”
His grin deepens now. Slow. Dangerous. Exhaustingly handsome. “You jealous, coach?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Heat climbs my neck instantly. I start toward the lobby before he can see how hard that landed, but Max catches the handle of my rolling bag first. My steps stop automatically.
"You don't have to worry about that," he says, his voice steady and certain.
I look up before I can stop myself. The noise of the hotel entrance drops away around us for one suspended second.
Players moving past. Fans yelling outside.
Lobby music drifting through the revolving doors.
None of it reaches me properly. Because Max is looking at me with that expression again.
The private one. The one I haven't named yet, but feels dangerous because it belongs entirely to me.
Then Anthony appears over Max’s shoulder again, like a deeply irritating ghost. “Hey,” he says conversationally, “quick question. Are we all pretending that wasn’t basically a public declaration of yearning or—”
“Dudek,” Trey says sharply from the lobby.
Anthony points at him triumphantly. “SEE? EVEN THE CAPTAIN FELT IT.”
I quickly retreat into the stairwell to the next floor and grab a different elevator. They were all too involved in their own banter to notice. Max probably noticed when he turned back around and I was gone, but he knows why.