Fans pour out first, jerseys disappearing into the Chicago night beyond the glass doors. Staff follows after. Production crews. Security. Trainers rolling equipment cases through the tunnels. The noise drains gradually from the building until the entire arena feels like one giant exhale.
When I walk into the media room, Fuze is asleep on the floor, using resistance bands as a blanket. Talia editing video calmly beside him.
“He lives here now?” I ask.
Talia shrugs.
“Post-loss behavior.”
Without opening his eyes, Fuze says, “The floor understands me.”
Sometimes I question if I accidentally joined a circus.
My father finds me in the corridor afterward. He’s changed out of his officials’ gear, but he carries the stillness everywhere, in and out of the black and white. He stops besideme, and we both watch the post-game stream of players and staff moving toward the locker room.
Frank walks beside me through the executive corridor toward the elevators, hands in his coat pockets.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m tired.”
“You’re thinking.”
Unfortunately, he knows me too well. The game should have eased something in me. Max played sixty disciplined minutes against a team specifically trying to provoke him. No retaliation. Every decision measured.
And the entire time I kept waiting for him to lose it. He never did.
“Stevens,” he says. Not a question.
“Yes,” I say.
“You watched him more than the game,” Dad says casually.
Ice slides straight through my ribs. “I was evaluating player response patterns.”
He makes a subtle sound that means absolutely nothing good.
“Toni.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Yes,” he says. “That’s what worries me.”
Then Frank says knowingly, “He kept looking for you.”
I stare straight ahead. “He’s emotionally reactive where you’re concerned,” he continues. “That’s dangerous for both of you.”
“He played clean hockey.”
“He played for you.”
The words hit me. A dark part of me already understands what he’s implying. The elevator arrives with a muted ding. We step inside alone. For a moment, neither of us speaks while the doors slide shut and the car descends through the levels beneath the arena.
My father is still for a moment. “Four penalty situations tonight. Two of them, I was watching him specifically.” I wait. “He made the right call each time.” A pause. “Including the Briggs hit in the third.” He glances at me sideways. “That one wasn’t easy.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”
He’s thoughtful for a moment. “I pulled the compliance session logs this afternoon. Before the game.” I go very still. “Price sent them with your preliminary review.” He faces forward. “The drill design. The methodology. The decision-tree framework.” He pauses. “That work is yours.”
