Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Max Stevens
Three weeks. I've survived broken ribs faster. Toni doesn't disappear. That's the problem.
Every morning she's there. Badge clipped. iPad in hand. Hair pulled back. Professional. So goddamned professional. Everything honest between us has been boxed up and put away. "Good morning, Mr. Stevens."
The first time she says it, I actually look behind me.
Because surely she's talking to somebody else.
Some executive or coach. A random Stevens wandering the arena.
Nope. Me. Mr. Stevens. The woman who climbed into my lap in a chair at Piper's house is calling me Mr. Stevens.
I spend the rest of practice wanting to fight something.
The locker room notices immediately. Of course they do. The Guardians could identify emotional instability from orbit. Anthony drops onto the stall beside mine after practice.
"Jesus."
I pull off my gloves. "What?"
"She called you Mister Stevens."
"I heard it."
"I felt it."
Across the room, Fuze looks up from taping his stick. "That's not a compliance officer anymore."
"What is it?" Knox asks.
Fuze winces dramatically. "That's a federal employee."
Several guys laugh. I don't. Anthony points at me. "See? No smile."
"I smile."
"You haven't smiled in twelve days."
"I smiled on Tuesday.”
"You threatened a referee Tuesday."
"That's different."
"It isn't."
The next morning isn't any better. Or the next. Every interaction comes off as scripted. Measured and safe.
She’s the exact opposite of Antonia and the old Toni.
This version of her gives me spreadsheets.
The real Toni laughs too hard, gets competitive about parking, makes faces when she's concentrating. I almost miss the spreadsheets, because at least they require eye contact. And I don’t want to think about what I miss about Antonia right now.
Three weeks later we're reviewing film. She stands at the screen. Pointer in hand. Professional voice, posture, everything.
"The correct decision here would've been lateral movement rather than engagement."
I nod. "Got it."
Her gaze flicks to mine. Just for a second. Then away. My insides twist. Because I know exactly why she's doing this. And because I know she's hurting too.
After practice Trey corners me in the hallway.
Nowhere to escape. Captain maneuver. "You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"You sleeping?"
"Some."
"That's a lie."
I shrug. Trey studies me. Then glances down the corridor where Toni disappeared five minutes ago. "Maybe stop looking at her."
"I'm not."
"You literally turned your entire body." I open my mouth. Close it again. Because he's right. I had.
The worst part comes Thursday. End of practice. Arena mostly empty. The sun already setting beyond the parking structure. I head toward my truck. Keys in hand. Thinking about absolutely nothing. Because thinking hurts.
Three rows up, in the stall she always chooses because it's far enough from the employee entrance to avoid conversation but close enough that nobody can accuse her of hiding.
Toni's silver sedan sits exactly where it was when practice ended.
The engine is off. The lights are off. Every other employee vehicle nearby has already pulled away, leaving her alone in a stretch of concrete that suddenly appears much too large.
Through the windshield I can see her silhouette bent over the steering wheel, both hands wrapped around it, her head lowered as though she's carrying something too heavy to set down.
A knot tightens inside me. Because I know that posture.
I've seen it after difficult games. After meetings with league executives. After phone calls with her father she pretended didn't bother her. Toni holding herself together. Not resting.
My feet stop before I consciously decide to stop. She's thirty feet away. Maybe less. Close enough that I can make out the curve of her shoulders through the windshield. Close enough that I could reach her in ten seconds if I walked. Eight if I hurried.
And I know exactly what would happen if I did.
I'd knock on the window and wait for her to roll it down.
I'd ask if she's okay even though the answer is obvious.
I'd tell her she doesn't have to sit in a parking garage carrying all of this by herself.
I'd tell her I miss her. I'd tell her that none of this changes what I feel. I'd tell her that I still—
My hand tightens around my keys. Because none of those things belong to me anymore.
Toni asked for space, not because she stopped caring, but because everything around us had become too loud. The photo. The media attention. Her father. The league. Every pressure point in her life suddenly converging at once.
She asked me for distance. Loving her means prioritizing her needs over my own desires, even when my instincts tell me to go in the opposite direction.
It’s a struggle, and I hate it. I stand there longer than I should, watching the motionless silhouette behind the windshield, hoping she’ll lift her head, start the engine, or do something that reassures me she’s okay. Unfortunately, she doesn’t.
Eventually I force myself to turn away. The walk to my truck is longer than it should be.
The engine sounds too loud when it starts.
The entire drive toward the garage exit feels wrong.
As I pull out, I glance into the rearview mirror one last time.
Her car is still there beneath the fluorescent lights.
Toni hasn't moved.
Her forehead remains pressed against the steering wheel, her shoulders bowed beneath the weight of something I desperately want to help carry and no longer have permission to touch. The image follows me all the way home.