Chapter Thirty-Four
Toni Amato
I see movement through the windshield and lift my head a small fraction automatically.
Max. Even from this distance I recognize the way he walks. The broad shoulders. The easy athletic stride. He slows. Then stops. My pulse stumbles. For a second neither of us moves. He's standing less than thirty feet away, close enough that I know he can see me sitting here. Close enough that he can probably tell I haven't started the car. Close enough that he might recognize exactly what this is. Because he has seen me like this before. Seldom and not willingly. But enough.
The weeks since the photo surfaced have hollowed something out inside me. Every conversation feels complicated. Every decision feels impossible. My father is disappointed. The league is watching. The media won't let it go. And through all of it I'vekept telling myself that distance is the responsible choice. Necessary. Professional. I watch him standing there and something shameful rises inside me.
Hope. Hope. The selfish, irrational kind. The kind that whispers cross the parking lot.Knock on the window. Tell me we're being idiots. Tell me this isn't worth losing each other over. Tell me you're still here.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Because I know exactly what would happen if he walked over. I would roll the window down. I would see his face. And every vigilant constructed reason I've spent three weeks building would collapse in under thirty seconds.
He remains where he is. Still. Watching. For one terrible moment I think he might actually come. Part of me wants him to. A larger part is terrified that he will. Then he lowers his head slightly, as though arriving at a decision.
And turns away. I watch him walk back toward his truck. Each step feels strangely unreal. As if my brain keeps expecting him to change his mind. He doesn't.
The truck starts. The headlights sweep across the concrete. A few seconds later he's gone. I stare at the empty space where he had been standing. In the span of a minute, the parking garage has become very large, very quickly. This is what I asked for. The reality of it.
The actual experience of watching someone who loves you choose not to come closer because you asked them not to. The realization settles. Max respected my boundaries. He respected it so completely thatit hurt.
I close my eyes and rest my forehead against the steering wheel. For weeks I've been telling myself that space would make things easier. Instead, all it's done is show me exactly how much of my life he had silently become.
I don't know how long I sit there after his taillights disappear.
Long enough that the fluorescent light above my stall flickers twice and holds. Long enough that the security guard at the east entrance finishes his crossword and switches to Wordle. I know this because I have catalogued the rhythms of this building for three months and I cannot stop cataloguing even now, even here, even when the thing I want most is to stop knowing things and just feel them.
I start the car.
The drive home takes twenty-two minutes. I count the stoplights. By the time I unlock the front door to the apartment, my hands are shaking so badly the keys clatter against the deadbolt.
Elena is on my couch because she likes my television more than hers, an oversized Guardians sweatshirt hiding her frame, a bowl of popcorn balanced on her knees while some reality TV show babbles on the screen. She looks up, her expression shifting from a welcoming smile to instant, sharp concern the second she sees my face.
"Toni? Hey, what's wrong?"
I don't answer. I can't. If I open my mouth, whatever is holding the walls up inside me is going to snap. I drop my work bag on the entryway table, the heavy leather strap hitting thewood with a hollow thud that sounds entirely too much like an ending.
In the kitchen, my hands grip the edge of the granite counter. I stare down at the polished stone, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, trying to utilize every centering exercise I’ve ever taught a rookie official. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
It’s not working. The air feels like glass in my throat.
"Toni, you're scaring me a little bit," Elena says, her socks padding against the hardwood as she follows me into the kitchen. She sets the popcorn down on the island. "Did something happen at the arena? Did the league call again? Did your dad?—"
"I can't do this anymore."
The words cut through the peaceful room, sharp and raw. They don't sound like me. They sound like someone else entirely. Someone who has run out of fight.
Elena goes still, her eyes searching mine. "Can't do what? The compliance oversight? Toni, if the stress of the media drop is too much, you can talk to HR, you can take a leave?—"
"Not the job," I whisper, and the first tear finally spills over, hot and humiliating against my cheek. I wipe it away aggressively with the back of my hand, but three more take its place. "Not the job, El. Him. I can't do this with him anymore."
Understanding clicks in Elena's eyes, her features easing into that deep, unconditional sisterly sympathy that usually makes me want to defensive-posture my way out of a room. But tonight, I don't have any opposing energy leftto adjust.
"He was standing there," I choke out, the dam finally bursting. "Tonight. In the parking garage. He was just thirty feet away. Looking at my car. He knew I was breaking down inside, Elena. I could see it in the way he stood there. He wanted to walk over. I know he did. Every single line of his body was vibrating with it."
"Why didn't he?" Elena asks gently, stepping closer.
"Because I asked him not to," I say, and a sob tears out of me, brutal and ugly. I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to anchor myself, but the kitchen is spinning. "Because I told him I needed space. I told him we had to be professional. I built this stupid, perfect, rigid cage out of my father's expectations and the NHL rulebook, and Max... god, Max just stepped back and let me lock myself inside it. Because he respects me. Because he loves me enough to let me go if it saves my career."
