I say nothing. Because there is nothing to say to that sentence that won’t land wrong.
“He has spent an entire career building a reputation in this league,” she says. “For three decades, every call placed correctly. Every player, every game, every situation. Defensible. Clean.” She closes her eyes briefly. “And his daughter’s photo is on the internet with a caption about his biggest problem child.”
His biggest problem child.
“Answer it,” I say.
She picks up the phone and looks at my face. “Max.”
“I’ll be outside.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I’ll be outside.” For one second, our gaze is locked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She accepts this. Her thumb hits the green button, and she lifts the phone to her ear. Her voice, when she says Dad, is so controlled it costs her everything.
I pull the door closed behind me.
The corridor is empty. I sit on the floor against the wall outside the film room with my forearms on my knees and the sounds of the surrounding facility. The ice resurfacer running, sticks rattling, the PA doing its morning check. The team warms up somewhere within those walls.
Fourteen minutes.
The door opens. Her footsteps. She stops when shefinds me on the floor.
I tip my head up.
She is controlled again. The wall is reconstructed. Her eyes are dry and her posture carries nothing visible. Her left shoulder, accustomed to carrying weight she refuses to set down, remains high and tight. This is a testament to her early learning that putting it down meant someone else would decide its resting place.
“Well?” I ask.
“He’s coming,” she says.
“Here?”
“Tonight.” A pause. “He’s officiating the home game. He was always officiating it. I didn’t—“she stops. “I didn’t flag it as a conflict because it wasn’t one. He officiates this division. It’s standard rotation.”
Frank Amato. Here. Tonight. “Okay,” I say.
“He wants to see me before the game.” Her voice is even. “He wants to discuss the photograph and what he called the appearance of impropriety and what he called my judgment and what he — “She stops again. The pause is longer this time. “He was calm,” she says. “He’s always calm.”
I stand. She is two feet from me and carrying weight I can’t take from her. I am aware of this, and I stay where I am. “What do you need from me tonight?”
She considers the question with the seriousness it deserves. “To play a clean game,” she says. “I need you to give him nothing.”
“Done.”
“I mean it, Max. No penalties. No fights. No escalation. Nothing he can point to.”
“I understand.”
“Because if you give him something tonight, he will use it, and he will be right to.” Her eyes are direct. “He has spent an entire career being right. I need him to have nothing tonight.”
“He’ll have nothing,” I say. “I promise.”
She studies my face. Whatever she finds, she accepts. One quick nod. She moves past me down the corridor.
“Toni.” She stops. “For the record,” I say. “What happened on the dock and last night?”
