MAX
The locker room after a win has its own particular sounds: sticks clattering into racks, Velcro ripping, the hiss of showers turning on and somebody blasting bad rap from a portable speaker.
Steam rising. Voices mixing. If you’d lived long enough in this life, the smell – sweat, damp pads and a faint whiff of antiseptic – was its own kind of perfume.
I took off my gear one piece at a time and loosened my shoulders. My body hurt, but it was the good kind of pain that told me I had earned every bruise. I’d just put on my T-shirt when someone called out, “Finn, you coming out with us? Donovan’s is gonna be packed.”
I shook my head, pulling on my jeans. “Not tonight. Got something else lined up.”
That earned me a chorus of groans and mock-boos. “Something else? What’s better than a cold beer after a win?”
I kept my voice even. “I’m meeting with a writer. She wants to learn more about hockey – background stuff for a project. Figured I’d give her the inside view.”
That made them shut up for a second, until somebody said, “Wait – she?”
“Yeah,” I said, stuffing my workout gear into my bag.
“Atta boy, Finn,” Seth chimed in, smirking from his stall. He had a towel looped around his neck, hair still damp, all cheek and charm. “Helping with her research, huh?” He wiggled his eyebrows like a cartoon character.
The guys laughed.
I zipped up my bag and slung it over my shoulder, ignoring them. I just said, “See you later,” and left.
* * *
The hallway leading out of the locker room had a faint smell of ice and popcorn. I pulled on my jacket, already hearing the crowd outside. It was thinner now, but still buzzing as they made their way to the exits.
As soon as I got to the players’ parking lot, the stragglers were waiting. A handful of kids, a few adults holding jerseys, programs and pucks. Their breath made little clouds in the sharp night air, and I couldn’t help but feel grateful that they’d been waiting this long, freezing, just for us.
“Finn!” one boy yelled, holding out a puck and a Sharpie. His cheeks were pink from the cold, but his eyes were bright.
I stopped, bent down to take the puck and signed my name in quick loops.
I handed it back to him and ruffled his hat.
I took a couple of pictures with other fans, scrawled my name across two more pucks, a jersey and a scrap of paper that someone had clearly ripped out of his course notebook.
Hopefully there was nothing important on the back.
I smiled easily because this was part of it. Always had been. The fans made the game come to life. Without them, the rink was just ice and boards.
And then I saw her.
Emma.
She was standing just outside the small crowd, wearing a dark coat and a scarf snug around her neck. For a second, I barely noticed anything else in the lot – just her.
“Ready?” I asked, trying to play it cool.
She nodded. “You’re popular.”
“They’re just excited,” I said, shrugging. “Wouldn’t be much of a game without them.”
* * *
The bar we found was on a side street where the noise from the celebrations after the game didn’t quite reach.
It was warm inside, with wooden floors, dim lamps and the soft murmur of other tables.
There were a couple of TVs that showed highlights from games across the league, but the commentary was muffled.
We slid into a corner booth. I noticed her taking off her scarf, the shape of her neck and the faint colour on her cheeks from the cold. Beautiful. Too beautiful.
Focus, Max.
Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Does all the attention ever get to your head?”
I chuckled and leaned back. “It did, once. When I was twenty. I thought I was invincible. Didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t.” I tipped my head, grinning at her. “Are you telling me I’m arrogant again?”
She smirked. “I didn’t say that.”
“You’ve obviously never met Seth. One of my teammates. Cockiest bastard alive.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Cockier than you?”
“Oh, by miles. Once, after he scored, he skated all the way around the rink with his arms out like he was blessing it. We were down by two goals.”
Emma laughed. “That’s… bold.”
“That’s Seth.” I took a sip of my beer. “So yeah. If you think I’m arrogant, you’re grading on a curve. What about you? Doesn’t being a famous writer ever go to your head?”
“No,” she said right away. “I’m way too unsure of myself for that. Half the time, I think it’s just luck that people like my books. That one day they’ll have had enough.”
I shook my head. “Grace wouldn’t agree with that. She says you’re brilliant.”
Emma’s smile softened, shy. “She’s biased.”
“Maybe. But she’s right.”
She blushed – Christ, she looked adorable – and looked down at her drink, her fingers tracing the rim like she needed something to focus on. There was a pause, then she glanced up again, meeting my eyes long enough to make my stomach flip.
“Anyway… how did it start? Hockey, I mean.”
I hadn’t expected the question. My hand flattened against the table before I realized it, steadying myself. “Needed to bulk up,” I said. “Needed to feel safe.”
The word got out before I could catch it.
She frowned. “Home didn’t make you feel safe?”
I looked straight at her. And there it was, something I never let people see. An old bruise, invisible but not gone.
“Hockey got me through,” I said. Kept my voice light, rough with humour, because that’s the dodge. Always has been.
She didn’t push, she just let it hang between us like she knew better than to poke at a wound mid-healing.
But after a moment, she said softly, “It’s brought you joy since then, right?”
I thought of the block that had sealed the game, the roar of the crowd and of the way my teammates had grinned and clapped my shoulders. The kids outside with their pucks and bright eyes.
“Yeah,” I could truthfully say. “Yeah, it has.”