“Cross-checking call.” He leans back, arms crossed. “Controversial.” I am attempting to explain body positioning while fully distracted by his forearms.
“It was not controversial. You hit a man into the boards with eight seconds left and a one-goal lead.”
“He was draped over Knox like a bad tuxedo.” I pull up the clip. Let it play. We both watch the hit in silence — the angle, the force, the immediate ref signal, the way the Gold Coast bench deflates.
“You had two other options,” I say. “Here.” I tap back fifteen seconds. “You had position. You could have stepped between them and drawn the interference call.”
“Too slow.”
“It was not too slow. Watch your feet.” I pause it and point at the frame. His feet on the ice, weight already distributed wrong for what he did. “You hit before you evaluated. That's habit, not instinct.”
He pauses for a moment. Watching the screen. Actually watching it, not performing attention. I’ve started to recognize the difference. There’s a version of Max that performs and a version that’s actually present, and they’re not always the same. Right now he’s present.
“Okay,” he says.
I blink. “Okay?”
“You’re right.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. The same posture from last night in the sauna, and I absolutely donot think about that. “Habit. I learned to go early on hits because if you hesitate, you miss the window. But you’re saying the window here wasn’t?—“
“The window here was draw the call, not win the hit.” I tap to the next clip. “Different goal. You didn’t read it.”
He studies the screen. Jaw working slightly, the way it does when he’s actually processing instead of formulating a comeback. “My first coach used to say you can’t teach anticipation,” he says, almost offhand. “Said you either read the ice or you don’t.”
“Is that where you learned to enforce?”
He glances at me sideways. Not combative. “Watch it, coach. You’re starting to sound interested.”
“I’m interested in why my player keeps taking penalties that are costing the team power play opportunities.” My voice remains even. “Understanding the pattern is part of the job.”
“Right,” he grins. A lazy, testosterone-laced grin. “The job.”
“The job.”
He holds my gaze for exactly one beat too long. Then he looks back at the screen. “Coach thought skill guys needed someone between them and the hits. He kept me around for it.” He tilts his head. “The idea stuck.” That’s the most he’s given me all week. Not flirting. Not a line.
“The idea isn’t wrong,” I say carefully. “Protection is legitimate. Enforcement is legitimate. But you’re using a blunt instrument when you have the hands for precision.” I pull up his stats in the second window. “Your reaction time in theneutral zone is in the ninety-third percentile. You’re faster than you play. You know that?”
He goes still, recalibrating. “My coach called me a banger,” he says. “Useful. Not skilled.” The word useful strikes a chord. I recognize it. The word people use when they mean limited. When they mean keep him for the hits and don’t ask him to do more.
“Your last coach was mistaken,” I say. Silence. He looks at me. Actually concentrating, not on the game between us or the clipboard distance. Just at me, direct and a little undone. I realize I’m looking back in the same way. I reach for the tablet. “Clip three,” I say, pulling us both back to the ice. “Anaheim. Late second period. Watch the decision tree here, because this one you actually did right. Be proud of it.”
He takes a second. Then he leans back toward the monitor. “High praise,” he says. “Write that down somewhere.”
“It’s in your file.”
“You keep a good file on me.”
“I keep a thorough file on all my assignments.”
“How many of your assignments do you think about in the sauna?”
My pen stops moving. Just for a fraction of a second, but it stops. I feel him catch it. “Clip three,” I say again. “Watch his feet.” Max watches the screen, but his mouth twists. Warmer than the grin. Something I don't have a word for and won't go looking. We get through four more clips. He asks two valid questions and one terrible one for the sole purpose of watchingmy expression. I answer the first ones and ignore the third. By the end, he has actual notes, and he’s taking them on his phone. Three plays circled and notes written in the margin I can’t read from here. When I call it, he doesn’t move immediately.
“You said ninety-third percentile,” he says.
“I did.”
“You looked that up.”
