One towel. Low on his hips. His hair is wet from the shower, and he has skate socks on, which should not be as funny as it is — six feet two inches of professional athlete in tube socks and terrycloth. He has a roll of pre-wrap in one hand. It’s evident he’s on his way to the training room. At thesame time I notice him, he notices me, and his mouth forms a shape that’s almost a grin before he holds it back. “Amato.”
“Stevens.” I drop my gaze to my clipboard. “The on-ice session starts in twelve minutes.”
“I know. Shoulder work first.” He lifts the pre-wrap. Evidence.
“Fine,” I start toward the training room door.
“You’re not going to say anything?”
“About what?”
“About—” he gestures at himself. At the totality of himself. At the considerable expanse of torso and shoulder and the frankly unnecessary amount of physical presence that exists in tube socks. “This.”
“You’re an athlete in a locker room corridor,” I say, eyes down. “This is the expected habitat.”
He falls into step beside me. Wet hair. Towel. Completely unbothered. “You’re impressively professional.”
“Yes.”
“It’s impressive.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m timing it,” he says. “To see how long before?—”
The alarm goes off.
Not a gentle alarm. A fire alarm. The full building system, strobes firing in the corridor ceiling, the PA blasting three short tones and then a recorded voice informing us to evacuate via the nearest exit and not use the elevators. The training room door swings open, and Dave, the head physio, comes through,already pulling on his jacket, radio in hand. “Out the back,” he says, pointing down the corridor toward the emergency exit. “Front lobby’s going to be a mess, facility’s directing everyone to their zone muster points. Service exit takes you to the east dock; that’s our zone.” He’s already moving. “I’ve got to grab the medical kit from—” he’s gone, through the training room again, his voice trailing.
The emergency exit at the end of the corridor has already disengaged; the push-bar glows green, and the heavy steel door stands open two inches from the automatic release. Standard fire protocol. I know this because I read the facility safety documentation in my first week, as I am that person.
Max pushes through the door. The October air hits us like a wall. I follow him through the door, and it swings shut behind me with a sound I recognize immediately and do not love. The magnetic lock re-engaging. Card-reader entry only. My badge is on my lanyard, which is around my neck, which means I have the means to re-enter the building. My badge reader requires the system to be reset by facilities. During an active alarm, the system does not reset.
I test the handle anyway. It doesn’t give.
Behind me, Max exhales once, like he already knows exactly how this is going to go. I stare at the door, gazing at the small red light on the card reader. Standing on the concrete service dock, I observe an industrial dumpster, a folding chair of unknown origin, a half-empty pallet of water bottles wrapped in plastic, and a spectacular view of the facility’s loadingbay. Beyond it, the October sky is gray and entirely serious about the temperature.
Then I look at Max. My eyes flick downward, entirely against my will. An unfortunate system failure. For just a second, I allow myself to recall what’s under that towel, and I’ll admit to no one that I’m a little turned on.
Max looks at the door. Observes the card reader. His eyes flick to the dock, then shift to me. “Huh,” he says.
“The muster point is around the front,” I say. “There should be a pathway around the perimeter?—”
“That door,” he says, pointing left to the facility’s exterior wall, “is a loading dock gate. Padlocked.” He points right. “That’s the HVAC unit. The perimeter path is on the other side of it, and there is a ten-foot security fence between us and it.” He scans the dock, calm about it in a way that is somehow more irritating than panic. “We’re on the east dock. The muster point is east. That location is on the other side of the building.”
I look at the fence. The HVAC unit. The sky. “How long does a fire alarm take to resolve?”
“In my experience?” He drops onto the folding chair without ceremony. It creaks, protests, holds. “Twenty minutes if it’s a false alarm, which it is, because there’s no smoke and the sprinklers didn’t fire.” He looks up at me. Wet hair. Towel. Skate socks. Absolutely at home on a concrete service dock in October. “Could be thirty. Facilities has to walk the building, confirm clear, contact the fire department, get the all-clear, reset the system.It’s not as bad as it could be.”
“How do you figure that? I could also be in a towel? That would be my worst scenario.” I pull my blazer tighter.
Max smiles wide and gorgeously, closing his eyes. “Now that’s a visual I’d like to take a few minutes to ponder in depth.”
I’m striving intensely to remain unaffected. He opens his eyes and looks at me.
“You’re in a towel,” I say.
“I’m aware.”
