At the end of the tunnel, I glance back at the arena.
Forty-one is at the far end, talking to one of the linesmen, relaxed. He’s removed his helmet. Silver-dark hair. The jaw I noted before. The posture of a man who doesn't need to own the room — he just occupies it, and that's enough.
I file it away and go shower.
“Stevens!” Coach blows the whistle the following morning, and the sound of it bounces off every surface in the practice facility before settling directly in my skull.
Morning skate wrapped ten minutes ago. The guys arefiltering toward the locker room in the slow, post-ice shuffle that means nobody wants to be first to leave because being first to leave means you weren’t committed enough, which is a fiction we all perform together. I’ve been coasting the far boards running edges because my left skate felt off in the second period last night and I’ve been trying to figure out if it’s the blade or just me.
“Save the hero shit for game night,” Coach says, clipboard tucked under one arm, wearing the face he saves for conversations he's already done with. “Your PIMs are turning into a PR migraine. Another careless hit and you’ll face suspension. Clean it up.”
I coast toward him. Helmet shoved back so he can see my face. “Clean? Coach, that’s not in my contract.” I lean on my stick. “You look like you need coffee. Or a vacation.”
He doesn’t smile. He never smiles. “Cut the crap.” He taps his clipboard against the board. “We play Philly tomorrow. I need you on the ice, not rotting in the sin bin.”
The pads shift on my shoulders as I shrug. “Enforcers enforce. That’s the job. Hammer can vouch for me. I protect the skill guys.”
Trey Dillingham glides past, the captain’s “C” bright on his shoulder. “He’s not wrong, Coach,” Trey says. “But Max, try dialing it back from nuclear to a stern warning.”
Coach ignores him. “The NHL launched a new initiative. Player conduct and compliance.” His finger jabs into my chest protector. “High-risk players get supervision.”
“Supervision?” I laugh. “I’m twenty-two, nottwelve.”
He folds his arms. “You’ve got twelve penalty minutes in two games,” he growls. “The league’s breathing down my neck about you.”
I tilt my head. “They’re noticing my charm?”
Coach doesn’t laugh. “The NHL’s sending someone,” he says.
“Sending someone for what?”
He jerks his chin toward the bench. “To babysit players who can’t stay out of the damn box.”
I bark a laugh. “Good luck with that.”
But Coach doesn’t move. His stare lingers. I think about forty-one on the ice last night. The three-second scowl. The way the call landed clean. I knew it. Sat with it. Didn't argue.
Maybe supervision isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
I don’t say that out loud. I have a reputation to protect.
“Good luck with that,” I say again, and skate away before he can see that I’m already thinking about it.
“Gotta stay loose,” I say, winding tape around my blade with manic precision. “Game day, baby.” I fire a puck across the room and it thuds off Anthony’s chest. “Tonight, let’s give the fans something to scream about.”
“Pretty sure they’ll scream when you hit the box, like usual,” Trey says.
“Hey, the box misses me,” I shoot back. “It’s called emotional support.”
The door cracks open. Someone yells, “The trainer from the League’s here for the refs!”
“Perfect,” Anthony mutters. “Another clipboard telling us how to play.”
Trey snorts. “Name’s Toni, apparently. Probably some guy with a whistle fetish.”
“Hope it’s not another fitness nut,” I say. “Last one tried to make us do yoga. Nearly killed me.” The door swings open, and the room goes dead. A woman strides in, dark blond ponytail tight, expression equally stern. The NHL logo on her quarter-zip is the only decoration she needs.
Antonia.
