Max asks Lucas. He asks Dude. He asks the equipment manager. He skates past me three separate times in the next week with the very deliberate nonchalance of a man who is absolutely not thinking about what I said.
I don’t tell him.
The tell is this: his jaw shifts left, barely a millimeter, when things cost him and he won’t admit it. It happened when I corrected the edge work. It happens every time I say something true that he’s not ready for.
He has been doing it since the first day I walked into the locker room.
I am not telling him that.
Ever.
The next morning, Sophie texts me a screenshot of the team group chat.
Max’s contact name has been changed.By unanimous vote. To .
He voted for himself.
I find this out from Piper, who finds everything out. Thankfully, they left me out of that chat. I add it to his file under:Additional context re: subject’s relationship with conflict triggers programming.
He submits the conflict triggers journal on Thursday at exactly nine a.m.
On time. I note this because he has been exactly on time to every session since week one, which I have decided is its own form of psychological warfare.
Today, it’s my turn to ramp up the revenge for the shenanigans Max has put me through recently. I call a practice video review meeting. The entire team is present. Big screen running game footage. Max strolls in late, carrying a protein shake, no shame, and his usual chaos energy. He drops into my chair again. Not his. Mine.
Anthony immediately mutters: “Oh no.”
Fuze says, “He’s dead.”
I don’t react immediately. That’s important. I refrain from sighing, glaring, or reprimanding him. I simply walk to the monitor calmly and say, “Today we’ll be reviewing behavioral patterns.”
The team reacts instantly. Like trained wildlife sensing anincoming natural disaster. Anthony slowly lowers his protein bar. Fuze actually scoots his rolling chair backward two full feet. Trey closes his eyes. Opens them. The captain, reconsidering. Knox mutters, “Oh brother,” into his coffee with genuine reverence. Across the room, Lucas looks between Max and me like he accidentally bought front-row tickets to a live execution.
Because everyone recognizes my tone immediately. Way too calm. Murder documentary calm. Meanwhile, Max grins, making himself at home in my chair, much like a person settling onto train tracks while the train horn sounds.
I click the remote, and the giant screen fills with every penalty Max has taken this season. One after another. Cross-checking, roughing, instigator, unsportsmanlike behavior. The timestamps, referee audio, freeze frames. The entire room loses it.
I wait silently. Then I go nuclear on his ass. Professional nuclear. I’m not angry; I'm clinical, and that's worse. “Notice here Stevens mistakes emotional escalation for leadership.” Click. “This one is particularly interesting because the play is already over and yet he continues skating toward danger like a raccoon approaching electrical wiring.”
Anthony folds over laughing. Trey physically turns away. Knox chokes on water. Max? Grinning harder every second. I realize, believe me, that he is enjoying my attention more than anything right now.
I pause on a freeze-frame. Max mid-fight. Wild-eyed, ferocious. On the screen, I digitallycircle him and say, “And this happens when an adult man has never properly processed a single emotion in his entire life.”
The room explodes. Fuze falls out of his chair. Like a full-body collapse. Max slowly leans back in my chair. Scans the room. Then smiles at me and says, “I’m honestly flattered you made a slideshow.”
I fold my hands behind my back. "At first," I say evenly, "I considered making it educational." The room idles immediately. “But after reviewing the footage,” I continue, clicking to another freeze-frame of Max halfway through launching himself at a defenseman twice his size, “I realized we’d crossed into documentary territory.”
Fuze makes a wounded choking sound into his sleeve. Anthony physically bends over his knees.
Even Trey’s mouth twitches. “I captain a professional hockey team. Why am I supervising mating rituals?”
Max presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “Coach,” he says. “You made me the featured presentation?”
“I considered a guest speaker,” I reply, clicking again. Now it’s a slow-motion clip of Max climbing over the boards during a line brawl while three referees try unsuccessfully to contain him. I point at the screen with laser precision. “Observe the complete absence of impulse control.”
Max leans back farther, completely relaxed. “Counterpoint,” he says. “The guy had it coming.”
I turn my head slightly toward him. Just enough to make the point. “And yet somehow, Mr. Stevens, you always look like the ultimate boss in everyone else’s bad decisions.”
