“What was what?” His eyebrows crease.
“The territorial homicide energy.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You looked ready to fight a journalist.”
“He was flirting with you.”
The immediate answer knocks directly into my bloodstream before logic can intervene. “That bothered you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation or embarrassment. Just immediate honesty. Which is somehow worse. Max drops his gloves onto the media table. “He touched your elbow.”
I stare at him. “You noticed his elbow placement?”
“I notice everything around you.” His tell engages. “Unfortunately.”
That sentence should not do what it does to me. And yet. Catastrophic internal consequences.
The arena at game speed bears no resemblance to morning skate. Saturday morning was all about hot chocolate and children shrieking victory over foam pucks. Tonight is about beer, adrenaline, and twenty thousand people hoping for blood. I stand in the tunnel with my credentials clipped to my blazer, tablet in hand, pulse steady in theory. The Gold Coast Guardians take the ice through smoke and white light. Crowd roaring. Bass shaking concrete. Names thunder through the bowl one by one. When the announcer reaches Max Stevens, the sound doubles.
Interesting.
He skates through the tunnel of light like he was born in noise. Stick tapping once against the ice. Head high. No smile. Game face on, he appears built for something brutal. The other morning he caught children mid-fall. Tonight he gives the impression he will cause them.
Piper appears beside me, carrying nachos the size of a steering wheel. “Youcame.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re standing beside me eating arena cheese.”
“I haven’t touched it.”
“You’re thinking about it.” I take one chip. She grins.
Puck drop detonates the crowd again. The pace is vicious from first whistle. Boston presses hard through neutral ice. The Guardians answer with speed. Max hops over the boards forty seconds in. My attention follows automatically. Annoying. He forechecks smart. Angles the defenseman toward the wall. Lifts the stick cleanly. Feeds Lucas McKenna in the slot. Shot saved. I mark the play on my notes. Piper peeks.
“Are you grading him?”
“Tracking decisions.”
“You like him.” She beams, licking cheese off her finger.
“I like data.”
Second shift. Max receives a breakout pass near center. One defender steps up. Max slips wide with elegant edgework most people miss because they're watching for the hit. He cuts inside. Draws coverage. Drops the puck blind to Trey entering late. Shot. Goal. The arena erupts. Trey points immediately toward Max. Recognition from teammates matters more than applause. I note it. Piper notes me noting it. “You’re doomed,” she says, chuckling.
“Eat your nachos.”
Boston retaliates midway through the first period. Late shove after the whistle on Mac. Nothing severe. Typical nonsense. Max sees it. He closes distance in three strides. Chest to chest. Words exchanged. Ref steps in. Whistle sharp. Crowdrises expecting violence, the way air before a storm goes quiet. I hold still. Max could turn this ugly in seconds. Instead, he backs off first. Skates away. No extra shove. No slash. No escalation. I lower my tablet slowly.
Piper smirks. “He heard you in his head.”
“Impossible.”
“He’s housebroken now.” She giggles.
After the final horn, Piper squeezes my wrist.
