“You’re in trouble.”
I keep my gaze on the ice.
“No.”
She laughs.
“Sweetheart, you already are. And I’m delighted to see it.”
I don't argue with her.
Two months ago I would have made the professional case. Tonight I don't have the words for it.
I watch Max crouch at the boards for a kid in the front row who has been leaning so far over the rail for the last ten minutes it's a structural concern. Max signs the jersey without hesitation. The kid grabs it with both fists like it's the most important object on earth. I'm watching because I want to.
That's new.
Chapter Fifteen
Max Stevens
The arena has its own battle scars and is full of these marks. Dents and scratches and water stains in the shape of states, built up over decades of bodies in transit. The building keeps score differently than the scoreboard does. Away arenas have their own superstitions too. Ours at Gold Coast: you tap your stick on the Zamboni bay door on the way to the ice, not the tunnel wall. Trey started it. Nobody remembers why. We do it anyway.
I sit in the locker room, tightening tape around my stick while music pounds through the speakers. Guys move around me in practiced chaos. Pads snapping, jokes flying, trainers weaving through stalls. Fuze drops onto the bench beside me. “You’ve checked the hallway six times.”
“I have not.”
“Seven,” Dude says from across the room.
“I’m hydrating.”
“You craned your neck around the water cooler,” Lucas adds.
Traitors. I glare around the room. “Don’t any of you have jobs?”
“We do,” Trey says, his captain’s voice calm as ever while lacing skates. “Ours starts in twenty.” Trey glances at me with the expression he inherited from somewhere. Probably Chase. “Try not to embarrass yourself tonight.”
“Can’t promise miracles.”
He smirks. “Try not to embarrass the franchise.” Closer.
Coach storms in, holding lineup cards. “Stevens.”
I point to my myself. “Present.”
“Discipline. Structure. Short shifts. No stupid penalties.”
“Your faith in me inspires.”
He leans close. “And Toni Amato is in the building, evaluating.”
The room erupts. “Ohhhhhh.”
“Performance anxiety!”
“Comb your hair, Max!” I throw a roll of tape at Fuze’s head. He catches it one-handed.
Coach pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate every one of you.”
