I lean back against the rack, breathing out. She could pretend that night never happened. But I remember everything. This game between us is only getting started.
Chapter Four
Toni Amato
If there’s one thing I’ve learned working in hockey, it’s this: Men like structure. They just don’t like being told they need it. Which is exactly why I'm standing in front of the entire Gold Coast Guardians roster with a whistle around my neck and a room that will soon find out that I've already won.
The locker room has a stench I’ll never get used to. Wet gear and adhesive spray and something underneath that I’ve decided is just hockey. The smell of men who've been doing this since they were nine. It sits in the ventilation system and the carpet tiles and the ancient team photos lining the upper wall, the ones where the jerseys are a slightly different shade from the current design because nobody’s updated them in eleven years. There’s a crack in the ceiling tile above stall fourteen, around which someone has drawn a face in black marker. The face has a tinyreferee uniform. I notice it in my first week and say nothing. It’s been there long enough to become load-bearing.
The arena runs on ritual. I understand this now. The specific order in which sticks line the rack. The security guard at the east entrance — Gerald, I've learned — always has a crossword open on his phone. He always asks the same players the same questions as they pass. He never asks me anything. He nods. That’s its own ritual. I’ve been nodded at by Gerald forty-seven times. I’ve started counting.
Today, helmets line the shelves. Sticks lean in perfect rows. Half the team lounges across the benches waiting for entertainment instead of a discipline seminar. Perfect. I don't introduce myself again right away. I let the silence stretch until it fills the room. One by one, conversations die off.
Good. “Phones away,” I say calmly. A couple of guys hesitate. I never raise my voice. I’m just waiting. It takes five seconds. Maybe six. Every phone disappears. Respect in rooms like this isn't demanded. You wait for it to arrive.
“I’m Toni Amato. Some of you I already met. Some of you, not yet.” I say, pacing slowly in front of them. “NHL Performance and Compliance.” A beat. “I’m not here to babysit you.” That earns a few smirks.
A familiar voice interrupts from the corner. “Shame. I was looking forward to story time.” Max. Of course.
I don’t turn toward him immediately. I let the room feel the interruption. Then I glance over. He’s leaned back against his stall, arms crossed, that lazy grin already in place, just waiting for me to react.Max Stevens should not be allowed to bethis attractive while actively misbehaving.“If you need a bedtime routine, Mr. Stevens,” I say evenly, “I can recommend one that doesn’t include penalty timeout.” The room fills with the sound of laughter. His grin widens. Yeah. He likes this. Good. “Let’s get something straight,” I continue, shifting my attention back to the group. “You’re professionals. Which means every decision you make on the ice affects more than just you.”
I’m three minutes into the penalty breakdown when Max raises his hand.
Not urgently. Lazily. The hand of a man at the back of a classroom, who has decided to become everyone’s problem today.
I don’t call on him. He keeps it up. “Yes, Mr. Stevens.”
“Just a clarifying question.”
“Go ahead.”
“When you say unnecessary roughness — are we talking about the hit, or the general vibe?”
“The hit.”
“Because I feel my vibe is entirely necessary.”
The room loses it.
I wait. He waits. Neither of us breaks. The team feels it. They love every second. I continue clicking the remote. Game footage flashes on the screen. Max. Of course it’s Max. Mid-hit. Aggressive. Reckless. Effective. “Last game,” I say. “Two-minute minor. Unnecessary.”
“Debatable,” Max calls out.
I don’t miss a beat. “Not according to the league.” A few of the guys snort. I keep going. “You want to play physical? Fine.That’s part of the game. But there’s a difference between controlled aggression and losing control.” My pupils flick to him now. Direct. Intentional. “You don’t get to cost your team momentum because you couldn’t make a smarter choice.”
This silence carries more weight than before. Because now it’s not banter. Now it’s the truth. Max pushes off the stall, slow, deliberate. “Or,” he says, stepping closer, “I’ll protect my team the way I’m supposed to.” The room stills. They’re watching. Waiting. Testing.
I hold his gaze. “You protect them by staying on the ice,” I say. “Not sitting on a bench while they clean up your mess.” That stings.
A couple of low whistles. Someone mutters, “Damn.”
Max’s eyes lock in. Not angry. Interested. Like I just gave him something worth chasing. “Careful, Toni,” he says, voice lower now. “You keep talking like that, people are gonna think you’ve been watching me.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Unfortunately.” The room breaks. Laughter. Actual laughter.
Even Trey shakes his head. “Alright,” he says, grinning. “I like her.”
“Yeah,” Fuze adds. “Can we keep her?” I ignore them.
