“Apparently Max was protecting our peace,” Anthony says.
Trey points at me without looking up from tying his skates. “You are not allowed to fight anybody tonight.”
“I’m always allowed technically.”
“No.”
Fuze studies me cautiously. “Emotionally, where are we at?”
“Ready for hockey.”
“That answer alone concerns me.”
Across the room Sully from PR appears in the doorway already sweating through his clipboard. “Okay,” he says precisely. “Just to remind everyone — league optics matter tonight.”
“Oh my God,” Anthony whispers. “They had a MEETING meeting.”
Sully points directly at me. “Max.”
“I know.”
“No extracurriculars.”
“I don’t know what that means anymore.”
“It means if you get into a line brawl while Toni Amato’s father officiates this game, I will walk directly into Lake Michigan.”
“Reasonable boundary,” Fuze says.
During warmups every time I circle near the benches, I catch sight of Toni in the compliance section above the tunnel. Tablet in hand. Hair pulled back. Professional expression locked all the way down. Frank Amato skates past our bench during a stoppage. Completely unreadable. But I catch the glance. Not at the team. At me. Not hostile. Worse. Measured. Like he’s still deciding what I am.
“Stevens,” Trey says discreetly beside me. “Stop looking at the referee like you’re planning a felony.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
Frank skates past the glass beneath Toni’s section during a stoppage. Neither of them acknowledge each other. Which somehow feels worse than if they did.
The puck drops.
Vegas comes hard through neutral ice. Knox breaks up the entry. Anthony chips it forward. I jump over the boards withLucas, catch the pass at center, and drive wide down the boards while their defenseman closes the gap. Everything sharpens. Crowd noise dulls. Legs burn. Instinct takes over.
The defender gets his stick tangled with mine near the wall, and for half a second I feel him hooking my hands. No call. Fine.
I muscle through it anyway and cut toward the slot, but another Vegas player steps up and drives a shoulder into my ribs hard enough to rattle my teeth. The puck squirts loose. Whistle. Delayed offside. The hit after the whistle is unnecessary. So naturally, I shove him. He shoves back. And suddenly everybody’s involved. Gloves pushing, players circling. The normal post-whistle shoving ritual hockey invented instead of therapy. “Easy!” Trey barks.
Vegas chirping starts immediately. “C’mon, Stevens,” their defenseman says. “Thought your girlfriend Antonia fixed your temper.” That lands. Not because it’s accurate. The guy grins because he knows he found something. “Better watch it,” he continues. “Her dad might ground you.”
"Say her name again," I growl. "I want to hear how fucking brave you are."
Anthony physically grabs the back of my jersey. “Don’t,” he hisses. Too late. I shove the Vegas player harder this time. His helmet snaps backward. The fans erupt instantly. And over all of it— Frank’s arm goes up. The building detonates with boos.
“Oh, COME ON,” Fuze screams from the bench.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lucasyells.
I already know. Interference. Roughing. Something. Doesn’t matter.
