Plates clang as I load the bench in the weight room. “Don’t piss off the hot trainer, Max,” Mac calls. Lucas McKenna, our new center, listens from his stall with the patience of a man keeping score. “Yeah,” Dude adds. “She might bench you for real.” I lie back on the bench and push the bar up through a clean rep.
Antonia Amato. Toni. The pull between us still sits under my skin. She left without a word. No note. Nothing. The door opens. I don’t have to look. I feel her. “Stevens.”
I sit up. “Max,” I correct.
She steps inside, clipboard tucked under one arm. All business. “Let’s begin.”
I wipe sweat from my forehead. “What’s the program? Anger management? Meditation?”
“We’re reviewing your penalties.” She taps the screen. “Last game against Toronto. You started a fight after a legal hit on your goalie.”
“Legal?” I scoff. “Knox was seeing stars.”
“The officials ruled it clean. And besides, the fans don’t call him Fort Knox for nothing. Calder can take care of himself.”
I stand. The space between us closes naturally. “You call him by his first name and not me?” She ignores my comment.
“You escalated,” she says.
“Escalation keeps people honest.”
“It also gets you suspended.” Her gaze lifts to mine. “You’re talented, Max. Speed. Hands. Instincts. But you chase chaos.” She called me Max. The word talented sits in my heart before Ican decide what to do with it. “You’ve been watching me?” I ask.
“Part of the job.” Her cheeks flush faintly.
I grin. “Unfortunately for you, or fortunately?”
She ignores that. “Sit.” We review clips together. My hits. My fights. Every penalty dissected. “Here.” She pauses a clip. “You could have deked around the defenseman instead of checking him.”
“Deking’s for pretty boys like Trey.”
“Smart players adapt.” Our knees brush under the table. Neither of us moves. “You always this stubborn?” she asks.
“Only when someone’s trying to fix me.”
Her voice drops. “I’m trying to keep you playing.” Our eyes meet. The air tightens. Then she leans back. Professional distance restored. “My father is a referee,” she says. That surprises me. “Top tier,” she continues. “He officiates NHL games. Including yours. He hates players like you.”
I lean forward. “Players like me?”
“Reckless.”
“Effective.”
She rolls her eyes. “Unreliable.”
I smile. “Obviously not your perspective two years ago.” Her breath catches.There we go.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Rockford,” I prod. “Hot tub. Pine trees. You leaving before sunrise.”
She stands so fast that the chair scrapes. “That was amistake. Mr. Stevens!” The words leave me gutted. “Ancient history,” she adds.
She says, “Mr. Stevens.” Like she doesn’t recall exactly how I sound when she says my name another way. Like she doesn’t remember whispering Max into my mouth while I drove her wild. Like she never breathed my name, slow and wrecked against my throat. Not a hint. She once straddled my lap in a rented house outside Rockford and bit my shoulder hard enough to leave a mark I wore proudly for a week.
“Funny,” I drawl. “You used to skip the mister.” I stand too. Close enough now to see the pulse in her throat. “History tends to repeat itself.”
Her eyes flash. “Not this time.” She walks to the door and grips the handle. For a second she hesitates. Then she leaves. The door shuts behind her.
