“I look everything up.”
He turns to look at me. That question, unrelated to hockey again. “You looked me up.”
“I research every player I’m assigned to.”
“Before or after you found out it was me?”
I stand and begin gathering my notes. My hands are completely steady. A personal achievement. “Before,” I say. “I review all files the night before I get the assignment.”
“So you knew before you walked into that locker room.”
I pause, meet his gaze, because if I don’t, he’ll read the dodge. “That’s correct.”
He lets that sit for a moment. “And you still walked in.”
“It’s my job.”
“Toni.” Just my name. No heat in it. No grin.
I move toward the door. Control. Always control. “Phone call in coach’s office, then dynamic warm-up. Lateral shuffles, mobility sequence, sprint bursts.”
He salutes lazily. “Yes, ma’am.”
“No sarcasm.”
“That was respect.” His smile is genuine and gorgeous. His eyes never leave mine as he opens the door.
Last week, I thought the game would spark a more intense debate on the call, but it remained calm. It helped that Calloway got the instigator penalty. Still, Damian warns Max again. He instructs me to babysit him almost twenty-four seven to avoid anymore publicity, and we move on.
“So we’re attached at the hip for the foreseeable future, Amato.” He looks more than thrilled. I roll my eyes.
“Only until you stop behaving like a toddler on skates.” Back in the gym, “Start moving.” He does. And annoyingly, he’s excellent. Explosive first step. Clean footwork. Strong hips. Controlled deceleration. Years of elite training. All of it hidden under swagger and bad decisions. He moves through ladder drills with more speed than many players a decade his junior. I make notes in the journal.
“You’re watching me again,” he says between reps.
“I’m evaluating mechanics.”
“My mechanics appreciate the attention.”
I refuse to answer. “Next station. Reaction lights.” Colored panels line the wall. When one flashes, he taps it and returns to center. The first few rounds go smoothly. Then he starts showboating. Behind-the-back taps. Spins. A wink after every blue light. I stop the timer.
“Why are you like this?”
“Natural talent.”
“Performance addiction.”
“Same thing.”
I step closer. “No. You need an audience for everything.”
He folds his arms. “And you need control foreverything.”
“That’s called competence.”
“That’s called fear.” The room stills. I should ignore it.
Instead, I say calmly, “Again.” He studies me for one beat too long. Then runs the drill seriously. No antics. No smirk. Fast. Focused. Sharp. When he finishes, he braces hands on his knees, breathing hard.
