ALL I WANTED to do was go home but catching a cab so soon after the game would be impossible.
I swiped my key to access the locked executive offices and made my way to my office.
I made a gin and tonic and then stood at my window and studied the near empty arena. Only a few straggler fans remained, while a Zamboni circled the ice and men with shovels scrapped the ice up from along the boards.
I shut my eyes and put my forehead on the cool glass. Tears blurred my vision.
What had I expected? I knew this job wouldn’t be easy but in my naïvety I thought it’d be hard because I’d be working for Dad. I hadn’t imaged that I’d come against the likes of Katrina.
“You want to tell me what is going on?”
I stiffened at the sound of Max’s voice. “How did you get up here?”
“A security guard let me in.”
I stood still, watching a father and daughter. They remained in their seats, laughing every time the Zamboni drove by their corner. It reminded me of better times when my dad and I used to watch hockey together. When had I started to fight him and his world? I missed how close we used to be.
“Are you okay?”
I took a deep, calming breath and lied. “Fine.”
“So, what did I witness between you and Katrina?”
I stared down at the arena. Father and daughter put on their coats. She chatted and her dad listened with rapt attention. Would my dad and I ever be that close again?
The Zamboni made its final lap.
“Katrina wants us to lift your media ban.”
“I got that part.”
I turned to him. He stood with his feet planted, and his hands in the pocket of his suit. The guy could be the face of Armani. He had the body and the bank account of a professional athlete and the face of a model. No wonder he wanted to keep on playing the field. He could get any woman he wanted.
Which made it even more embarrassing that I had thought for a fleeting moment he’d want me.
“I don’t want you to talk to the media yet.”
“And the GM?”
“He agrees with me.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“No other player has a media gag. I’m wondering why I have one?”
“Do you want to talk to the media?”
“I don’t give a fuck about the media. That’s not what I asked.”
“You told me you don’t want any distractions.”
He sounded pissed. “You’re protecting me?”
“I’m helping you shut out the noise.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because if I shut out the noise and you can focus, you’re the best player on this team. I want you to go far. I want you to be the best.”
“Are you for real?”
Anyone else would express their gratitude. Not Max.
“Yes. I’m for real.”
His eyes drifted down my body and back up. “What’s the catch?”
“It also works to our club’s benefit to avoid any undue media storms.”
“You mean bad press.”
I choose my words with care. “We are concerned with the overall health of the club’s image.”
He stepped up next to me and took the glass from my hands. A faint sweet, woody fragrance, that was distinctly Max, teased my senses. It was subtle but masculine. I watched as he drained my glass.
“You know, you’re the only one around here who’s honest with me?”
I stared up at his eyes, in particular his eyelashes. They were sooty black and thick.
He glanced down at me and frowned. “Were you crying?”
“No.”
His big hand moved up to my face, and I felt his thumb smear a lone tear from beneath my eye.
I swallowed as I stared up at him, feeling vulnerable. Didn’t matter that less than a month ago, I had been doing the ugly cry in front of him when our plane was going down. Now, my tears were an admission of weakness. It spoke about how over my head I was in this job, and about how much my conversation with Katrina affected me. We were no longer strangers facing death together. Now, so much more was at stake which meant that tears could no longer be on the menu.
His blues dropped to my mouth. “Fuck I’m going to regret this.”
“Regret what?”
His hand slid around my neck and then he tugged me closer. My breath was a staccato in my ribcage as he dropped his head down towards mine. And then his mouth moved over mine, stealing my breath. He tasted like gin and warm male. His playful kiss coaxed me until my mouth opened beneath his. I moaned, and he groaned in response. I felt him tug me closer as he deepened the kiss. It languorously combined wicked sensation and shameless desire.
My heart slammed in my chest, and I swear my knees were shaking.
I was in fucking sensory overload. My mind didn’t seem capable of keeping up with the sensations that assaulted me down to my toes.
I gasped when he lifted his mouth and stepped back. His blue eyes, with blown pupils, lingered on my mouth.
“I should go.”
“What?” I sounded as stunned as I felt.
He didn’t answer and without saying another word, he turned and walked out of the office.
My fingertips fluttered to my lips. Max had kissed me. It shouldn’t make me this happy, but I couldn’t stop my heart from zinging with joy. We didn’t have a future. He was a player, and I was the GM’s daughter and there was no possibility of pursuing anything between us.
But my stupid heart didn’t care.
THAT NIGHT, I crawled into bed with my laptop. I would watch the one video I had been avoiding since I had heard about it. The video of the famous fight between Max and Joseph, his old team member.
This fight was the real reason no one cheered for him. This fight is why thousands of people judged him by withholding their praise. I needed to watch it.
It took less than a second to find it. It was the most viewed hockey video with over 19 million views.
I clicked play. The video footage was raw. A cameraman from a known sports news station, ran his film, while he waited for players to come out of the locker room.
Off camera, you could hear reporters talking about the game.
A faint shout.
And then another shout.
Voices yelling. Muffled. A fight from behind closed doors.
The reporters all stopped talking.
The cameraman shifted the camera to the door of the locker room.
Something banged against the door.
The shouting got louder. It sounded like a complete brawl.
The excited murmurs of the reporters.
The door flew open. In a blur, two hockey players tumbled out.
One was Joseph Flanynk, and the other was Max. Both still in uniform. Both wore their skates.
Joseph got a wild punch that connected with Max’s face.
Max’s head snapped back and blood splattered. His lip split.
Max’s face was a mask of pure rage.
He all but lifted Joseph up off his skates and body slammed him into the cement floor. He lost his own footing and landed on Joseph.
Reporters hustled out of the way, blocking the camera.
The door yanked open and three more players piled out.
Someone lifted the camera and moved closer.
Max was on top of Joseph. He hit Joseph with a savage violence that shocked me.
Voices off camera. “He’s going to kill him. Get Max off him.”
A flurry of arms and legs and hard wrestling. Max fought being lifted off Joseph, but his teammates restrained him and shoved back into the locker room.
Joseph was unconscious and his face was unrecognizable.
“Call an ambulance.”
“Turn off that camera.”
The video ended.
Horrified, I sat with my hand over my mouth.
I knew the facts. Max had broken Joseph’s jaw in three places, smashed his nose and broken two of his teeth. Joseph’s injuries were so extensive he required restorative surgery to his face.
Max hadn’t been charged, but the coach had benched him. According to my father, it was a move made by his team to buy time, so they could wrap up the paperwork and remove him from the team.
As soon as the playoffs ended, Minnesota had put Max up for trade. Not a single team had wanted him, except my father.
It baffled me that no one from his old club talked about what the fight was about. There were plenty of news articles written about the fight, filled with speculation, but no one from his old team talked. Which was unusual. Hockey lips sank ships, but in this case, no one breathed a word. Which showed how bad the secret was.
No wonder there was such a feeding frenzy around Max.
What had happened?
Why had he lost his cool and beat his own teammate?
I couldn’t reconcile the Max I knew with the barbarian who seemed determined to destroy Joseph. My question was, what had Joseph done to Max? Max wasn’t a fiery hothead. He didn’t have a hair-trigger temper.
Now the hockey world held Max’s past against him. I had promised him a clean slate and I would grant him that. This video only validated my decision to protect him from the press. And the public. Without speaking to anyone, the media couldn’t twist and turn his words against him. Without sound bites, reporters had nothing to write about.
I needed to find out what secret he was hiding. I needed to know what that fight was about.
