I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself. “Both.”
“Yikes.” She leans one elbow on the doorframe like we’ve known each other longer than thirty seconds. “What’s the treatment plan?”
“I was thinking wine. Alone. Followed by pretending none of today happened.”
She gasps dramatically. “Absolutely not.” Before I can answer, she digs through her oversized bag, finds a pen, and points toward the clipboard on my passenger seat. “Can I?” Too drained to question anything, I open the window further and hand it over. She scribbles quickly, tears off a page from a notepad tucked inside, and hands both back. “I’m Piper,” she says. “I’m having a night out tonight. Casual. Loud. Zero emotional spiraling allowed.” She extends her hand and I shake it, but she keeps it there. “Phone, please, unlocked.” I shake my head and hand her my phone after pointing it at my face. She enters her contact information and hands it back.
I glance at the paper. An address on Madison. A bar I recognize. “I’m Toni. Thanks for the invite. I’m not sure I’ll make it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. Questioning whether I’m alwaysthis difficult. “Nope. Wrong answer.” I blink. “Text me when you arrive.”
“When I arrive?”
“When,” she repeats. “Not if.” I laugh again, fuller this time.
Bossy. I like her already. She steps back from the window and hooks her thumb toward the arena.
“Trust me, Toni. You don’t want to spend tonight alone replaying whatever happened in there.”
If only she knew. “I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll come.”
She gives me a quick wave and disappears through the tunnel doors before I can argue.
I stare at her name in my contact list. Piper Maddox. Piper Maddox. Chase Maddox's wife, which means she's connected to half the roster. I do need to meet some new people. Discipline shaped my Chicago existence for two years. School, internships, league certifications, along with workouts in the early mornings and sometimes late at night. A schedule so full, it banishes loneliness by allowing no space for anything else.
My only real friends are Elena and Talia. Elena claims she’s not old enough to mother me, though she absolutely is. And Talia from school, who works enough hours for three people and sleeps like it’s an Olympic event. I glance at the address again. My phone buzzes.
Piper: Wear something fun. You look like a woman who ownsblack boots.
A startled laugh bursts out of me. Then another text appears.
Piper: Also if Max Stevens upset you, come twice as fast.
I stare at the screen. So. She knows.
And somehow … I’m smiling.
Chapter Five
Max Stevens
The Garden has a specific sound. Every arena does, if you play in enough of them. Boston sounds like a building that expects to win. Washington hums with bureaucratic patience. Chicago, our roar has a distinct frequency that resonates in my back molars. Tonight is Philly, and Philly sounds like a dare.
The boards are softer in the corners, worn down by two decades of bodies. The ice here is old in a way you can feel in your skates… There's a distinct smell to away ice. Your body learns these things without being asked. Mine learned the difference between home ice and away ice before it learned geometry.
The penalty box at Philly is directly behind the visiting bench, which means I can see Coach’s expression for the entire two minutes every time I’m in it. Coach has fifteen expressions. I can identify all of them. The one he’s wearing right now, at theend of the second period, says: don’t test me tonight. I’ve memorized that one in particular.
The thing about protecting your goalie is that it’s not a decision. It's a reflex. Same as blocking a punch you never saw coming. For two seasons, Knox has played goalie for us, serving as Madman’s backup his initial season. He’s got this thing he does. It’s a particular stillness before he locks in that indicates when he’s fully focused. Tonight, through two periods against Philly, he’s had it. Fourteen saves. Two were robbery. One was flat-out theft.
Their defenseman, an asshole named Calloway, six-three, a known cheap-shot artist, two prior suspensions, comes into the crease after the whistle and clips Knox high with a follow-through he absolutely does not need to take, something in me trips like a breaker switch. Not a decision. A reflex. I’m there before I think it. My gloves are gone before Calloway finishes his follow-through, and then it’s bodies and noise and the chaos of a hockey fight that’s real. This is not a tap-and-dance, not two guys holding jerseys, it’s actually real, with Calloway’s first punch glancing off my chin and my answer landing square. Someone grabs my arm. I shed him. Someone else piles in from the side. The crowd draws one collective breath and holds it. I see Knox get up. That’s the only thing I need. Once the linesmen arrive, the contest finishes. They give me two fighting majors and march me toward the locker room while the third period starts without me. I sit on the bench in my own tunnel and watch on the monitor and work through a roll of pre-wrap with my hands because otherwise I’ll put them through thewall. There’s blood down the front of my sweater and I’ll need to change it before returning to play. This hinges on Calloway receiving the Instigator penalty. Then, the officials would waive the automatic game misconduct for me. But it’s still a shitstorm that’s going to come down on my head.
The monitor shows Philly pressing. Knox is sharp. The team is holding. My lip is split. Tomorrow, my jaw is going to ache. My knuckles are bleeding. On the monitor, Trey wins a face-off cleanly. Lucas sets up at the left circle. The game keeps moving the way it does but without me, fine, always fine. I sit in the tunnel and witness it happen and think about reflexes. Whether they’re always worth it. Whether this one was.
Late in the third, the coach sends me back out. I wasn't expecting it. I look at him and he stares at the ice instead of at me, which is how Coach says I know what I’m doing, and I’d rather not discuss it. I snap my helmet back on and step over the boards, and the crowd makes a sound I feel in my back teeth.
The board battle comes fast. Their guy is bigger than me by twenty pounds, and I don’t care. I win it on footwork, chip it low, take the hit. It’s a good hit, clean, the kind that would have made me swing six weeks ago. I stay up because I’m twenty-two years old and I have been taking hits since I was nine and I have never once gone down on a clean check because my first coach taught me that one thing, at least.
