Two minutes later I walk past his stall, pointing to a clip on my screen, and his hand comes up, casual, two fingers, a lift. And my whistle is gone from around my neck before I register the motion.
I stop. Glare at him. He has the whistle in his mouth. Not blowing it. Just. In his mouth. Staring at me with the calmof a man who has absolutely no concerns about his current situation.
Every person in this room is holding their breath.
I hold out my hand.
He considers it.
“Stevens.”
“You really should wear it shorter,” he says. “Easier access.”
“Easier access for whom?”
“Safety reasons.” He folds his arms. “Coach.”
I shake my head and stand my ground.
He takes the whistle out of his mouth, places it in my palm, and leans back. “Careful, coach,” he says solemnly.
“Why.”
“You touch me and I stop hearing English.” That hits differently than I expect. Warmer. I file it away before I realize what I'm filing. The team makes a sound that suggests they also noticed.
I turn back to the monitor. My pulse is faster than it should be. I don't want to guess the exact number.
Coach. No. Absolutely not.
“Gear up,” I say, clapping once. “We’re taking this to the ice.”
The shift from the locker room to the rink is immediate. The air is colder. Sharper. Cleaner. This is where they’re comfortable. Where they think they have the advantage. Good.
“Line up,” I call. They do. Faster this time. We run controlled drills first. Positioning. Reaction timing. Decision-making under pressure. I watch everything. Every hesitation.Each shortcut. All instincts that cause a penalty instead of continuing play.
The thing about hockey players is that they’re always wet. Sweat, water bottles, the spray off the ice, there is a permanent humidity to this profession that I have accepted as an occupational condition. I’m standing at the boards reviewing footage on my iPad while practice runs, and I’ve accepted it entirely.
What I haven’t accepted and won’t accept is Maxwell Stevens.
He finishes the third-line drill, skates to the bench, reaches over the boards, and pulls his practice jersey over his head. In one motion. His back is to me for approximately one second before he turns to dig through his bag for the dry jersey.
I look at the tablet. Focus on the play. There is no Maxwell Stevens shirtless on this footage. I keep my focus on the screen. Don’t react. Do not react. He feeds on reactions.
He holds the dry jersey but doesn’t put it on. Braces one hand on the boards and gazes at the ice. “The read I made in the third drill with the crossover positioning?—”
“Your weight was too far forward on the outside edge.” I don’t glance up. “It cost you a half-second on the recovery.”
“How do I fix it?”
“Shift the load point to your heel before the crossover initiates.”
He’s still holding the jersey. I can see this in my peripheral vision,which I am not using. “Can you show me on the tablet? The angle.”
I pull up the clip. Hold the screen towardhim. He leans over the boards to see it, which brings him approximately fourteen inches from me, and he is still not wearing the jersey, the rink air is cold and he is warm and both of these facts reach me simultaneously. Unfortunately, he smells good even though he’s sweaty.That feels relevant to my suffering.
“There,” I say, pointing at the frame. “See the heel?”
“Yeah.” He’s focusing on the screen. “Yeah, okay.”
