Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Max Stevens
Vegas games always feel meaner. Emotionally committed to violence in a way most arenas only attempt.
The room before puck drop carries that specific energy.
Music too loud, tape snapping, equipment hitting concrete floors hard enough to sound personal.
Across from me, Anthony re-tapes his stick for the third time while Fuze skates one-socked foot across the room, stealing pieces of everyone’s pregame snacks like a six-foot menace.
“Those are mine,” Lucas says as Fuze steals half his banana.
“You don’t own potassium.”
“I was eating that.”
“You were thinking about eating it. Different process.”
Trey walks through the middle of it all with captain-level exhaustion already visible. “Can everybody shut up for thirty consecutive seconds.” Nobody does.
Then the officials walk past the open locker room door toward the ice.
And the room changes instantly. No one shows it, yet everyone present recognizes him.
Frank Amato walks past in stripes with calm, economical strides, whistle looped around one hand.
Veteran official. The room knows who he is. Toni’s father.
Fuze slowly turns toward me. “Oh no.”
“Don’t,” I say immediately.
Anthony leans back in his stall. “That’s actually insane.”
“He’s officiating?” Knox asks.
“You guys didn’t know?” Lucas says. “I thought everyone knew.”
“Apparently Max was protecting our peace,” Anthony says.
Trey points at me without looking up from tying his skates. “You are not allowed to fight anybody tonight.”
“I’m always allowed technically.”
“No.”
Fuze studies me cautiously. “Emotionally, where are we at?”
“Ready for hockey.”
“That answer alone concerns me.”
Across the room Sully from PR appears in the doorway already sweating through his clipboard. “Okay,” he says precisely. “Just to remind everyone — league optics matter tonight.”
“Oh my God,” Anthony whispers. “They had a MEETING meeting.”
Sully points directly at me. “Max.”
“I know.”
“No extracurriculars.”
“I don’t know what that means anymore.”
“It means if you get into a line brawl while Toni Amato’s father officiates this game, I will walk directly into Lake Michigan.”
“Reasonable boundary,” Fuze says.
During warmups every time I circle near the benches, I catch sight of Toni in the compliance section above the tunnel.
Tablet in hand. Hair pulled back. Professional expression locked all the way down.
Frank Amato skates past our bench during a stoppage.
Completely unreadable. But I catch the glance.
Not at the team. At me. Not hostile. Worse.
Measured. Like he’s still deciding what I am.
“Stevens,” Trey says discreetly beside me. “Stop looking at the referee like you’re planning a felony.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Frank skates past the glass beneath Toni’s section during a stoppage. Neither of them acknowledge each other. Which somehow feels worse than if they did.
The puck drops.
Vegas comes hard through neutral ice. Knox breaks up the entry. Anthony chips it forward. I jump over the boards with Lucas, catch the pass at center, and drive wide down the boards while their defenseman closes the gap. Everything sharpens. Crowd noise dulls. Legs burn. Instinct takes over.
The defender gets his stick tangled with mine near the wall, and for half a second I feel him hooking my hands. No call. Fine.
I muscle through it anyway and cut toward the slot, but another Vegas player steps up and drives a shoulder into my ribs hard enough to rattle my teeth.
The puck squirts loose. Whistle. Delayed offside.
The hit after the whistle is unnecessary.
So naturally, I shove him. He shoves back.
And suddenly everybody’s involved. Gloves pushing, players circling.
The normal post-whistle shoving ritual hockey invented instead of therapy. “Easy!” Trey barks.
Vegas chirping starts immediately. “C’mon, Stevens,” their defenseman says. “Thought your girlfriend Antonia fixed your temper.” That lands. Not because it’s accurate. The guy grins because he knows he found something. “Better watch it,” he continues. “Her dad might ground you.”
"Say her name again," I growl. "I want to hear how fucking brave you are."
Anthony physically grabs the back of my jersey. “Don’t,” he hisses. Too late. I shove the Vegas player harder this time. His helmet snaps backward. The fans erupt instantly. And over all of it— Frank’s arm goes up. The building detonates with boos.
“Oh, COME ON,” Fuze screams from the bench.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lucas yells.
I already know. Interference. Roughing. Something. Doesn’t matter.
Frank skates toward us calmly while the Vegas player suddenly discovers his deep commitment to dramatic suffering.
“You’re calling THAT?” I snap.
Frank doesn’t react emotionally or personally. “You retaliated after the whistle,” he says evenly.
“He baited me.”
“And you responded.”
“You missed the hook!”
“I saw the hook.”
I laugh, sharp and disbelieving. “Great. Awesome. Love that for me.”
His expression never changes. The controlled professionalism Toni inherited from him. It does the same thing to me on the ice that it does in a film room. “You’re in the box for roughing, Stevens.” The fans boo louder. I stare at him. Really stare.
And for one dangerous second I understand Toni perfectly because Frank Amato weaponizes calmness in a way that makes emotional people feel insane. “You giving me this because of her?” I ask, my voice lowered.
That gets his eyes on mine fully for the first time tonight.
Around us the crowd screaming, players shifting, music pounding through the arena speakers, but suddenly it feels dead silent.
“No,” Frank says.
And the terrifying part? I believe him. He points toward the box.
I go. Mostly because if I stay another second I might say something catastrophic.
The fans rain down boos the entire skate there.
Vegas fans near the glass cheer sarcastically while I slam the penalty box door hard enough to shake it.
Anthony skates by slowly. “You good?”
“No.”
“Yeah. We can tell.”
I sit forward gripping my stick while the penalty clock starts.
Two minutes. Across the ice, Toni hasn’t moved.
Not visibly emotional. But I know her now.
I know what her face looks like when she's scared. What her laugh sounds like when it escapes. Which means I also know exactly how tense she is right now. I know the tiny tells. Her father skates past her toward center ice. She doesn’t look at him.
He doesn’t look at her. Which somehow tells me everything, anyway.
“Oh my God,” Fuze says from the bench loud enough for nearby microphones to probably catch it. “Thanksgiving at their house is going to be UNHINGED.”
Trey grabs the back of his jersey immediately. “Please stop talking.”
“I’m stressed.”
“You’re making everyone else stressed.”
Vegas sets up on the power play. I should focus, reset, calm down. Instead, I see Toni on that dock.
I was scared.
And Frank across from me now measuring. Deciding if I’m worthy of her. The thought hits somewhere unreasonable.
“Stevens!” I look up just in time to watch Vegas ring a shot off the post. The crowd gasps. Bench explodes. Trey clears the rebound hard enough to send it down the ice. “THANK YOU,” Sully screams somewhere behind the bench.
The penalty kill survives another thirty seconds. Then another. By the time I step out of the box, the arena is standing. Timeout expires. I step out clean.
Paulson immediately chirps. “Daddy bail you out?”
Old version of me drives him into the boards. Current version skates away. Toni's voice is in my head and I let it be. Paulson actually looks disappointed.
“OH MY GOD,” Fuze screams from the bench. “PERSONAL GROWTH.”
Laughter from the fans nearby. Even I nearly do.
Knox intercepts a pass immediately and feeds me through center. Instinct takes over before thought can catch up. I drive hard through neutral ice. One defender. Then another. Vegas scrambling backward. The noise rising louder with every stride.
“GO GO GO!” Anthony is screaming.
I cut inside at the top of the circle and snap the shot low blocker side.
Goal horn. The building absolutely explodes.
Pure white noise. My teammates launch over the boards while I coast past the glass breathing hard enough to taste blood from the split in my lip reopening.
Without thinking, I look toward Toni. Immediate mistake.
Because she's smiling. Proud. The real kind.
God. That expression nearly drops me where I stand.
Anthony crashes into me first, grabbing my helmet. “OH MY GOD, HE BEAT THE FATHER-IN-LAW ALLEGATIONS.”
“Shut UP.”
Lucas crashes into us, laughing. “This is the best season of hockey I’ve ever experienced.”
Trey points at me while skating over. “Act normally for ten consecutive seconds.”
“I AM normal.”
“You scored directly after being penalized by her father. Nothing about your face is normal.”
The replay flashes overhead. First, me in the box, Amato making the call, the goal afterward. The crowd loses its mind again.
“Oh no,” Fuze says from the bench. “SportsCenter’s gonna make this horny.”
I nearly black out laughing. Not because it’s funny.
Because unfortunately it absolutely is. Across the rink, Toni has regained composure already.
iPad up. Professional mask restored. But too late.
I saw the smile. Frank saw me see it too.
And when play resets at center ice, he skates past me once more. Close enough only I hear him.
“Good response,” he says calmly. Then he keeps skating.
I actually miss the face-off because my brain fully stops functioning.
Anthony slams into my shoulder. “WHAT DID HE SAY?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing face.”
“I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”
“Emotionally or medically?”
“Yes.” The final horn sounds seven minutes later.
Guardians win. The arena erupts. And somewhere beneath the celebration and teammates piling into each other, one realization settles heavily into my brain: Frank Amato gave me that penalty because he expected better from me.
That's honestly much scarier than hatred.