My focus remains on him. He studies me. Recalculating. He didn't expect me to follow through. “On what grounds?” he asks, voice subdued now.
“Control,” I say. “You don’t have it today.” That hits. Because it’s not about the drill. It’s about him. “You want to play reckless?” I continue. “You don’t play.”
Another beat. The team watches, completely invested now. Max exhales slowly. Then he smiles. Not cocky. Warmer than that, and sharper, and somehow more dangerous because of it. “Yes, ma’am.”
The reaction from the team is immediate.
“MA’AM?” Fuze howls.
“Max is cooked?—”
“I’ve never seen this man listen to anyone.”
He approaches the bench like he was awarded something. I turn before the heat creeping up my neck gives me away.That smile was not supposed to land like that.
Practice resumes. But I feel it. The shift. The respect. They listen rapidly now. Move sharper. Pay attention. Even Max. From the bench, his pupils track me the entire time. Engaged. The way he observes film, like he's cataloguing.
When I finally call it, the guys peel off toward the locker room, still buzzing. “Best practice all week,” someone mutters.
“Worth it just to see Max benched,” another adds.
“Worth it?” Max calls after them. “I enjoyed it.” Laughter echoes down the tunnel. I gather my things, keeping my focus on my notes. On anything but him. Too late. His shadow fallsacross the ice in front of me. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he hisses.
I don’t look up. “I don’t play games.” A pause.
Then he moves in. “Could’ve fooled me.” I lift my gaze. He’s right there. Too close. It feels too familiar.It’s too much.
“You’re not special, Max,” I say evenly. “You’re a player with a problem I’m being paid to fix.”
His mouth curves. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
He leans in slightly. Voice dropping. “Then why’d it feel like you enjoyed putting me in my place?”
My pulse stumbles. I hold steady. “Because you needed it.”
His expression darkens. “And if I say I didn’t mind?”
I step back first. Control.Always control. “Then you’re exactly the kind of player they assigned me to.”
I move past him before he can respond. Before he can see the crack. Because the truth? Benching Max Stevens should not have felt like that. Like losing control rather than exercising it. Like Rockford, still alive under two years of careful work.
Is this what every day will be now? Me sitting in my car after work, trying to regulate my pulse before I can drive home?
I drag in a slow breath. Another. My forehead against the wheel. A knock on the window startles me out of my stupor. “Whoa.” A petite, dark-haired woman stands beside my car, one hand lifted, concern written plain across her face. She motions for me to lower the window.
I crack it halfway.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m waiting for my brother and saw you sitting here. You okay? Need me to call someone?”
Her voice is warm. Direct. The kind that doesn’t perform kindness but simply offers it.
I manage a tired smile.
“Thanks. I’m okay. Rough day at work.”
She glances toward the arena doors, amused. “Ah. Hockey-related rough or regular rough?”
