This was Max’s favorite part: the post-game buzz. The roar of the crowd had faded, replaced by the hum of excited fans clutching jerseys and Sharpies. Camera flashes popped like distant fireworks, and the scent of popcorn and sweat clung to the air. For a moment, he was a kid again-standing beside his dad outside their local rink, staring up at players with stars in his eyes.

Killian nudged him, snapping him back to the present. "So? How’d the ice feel out there? Big-league nerves?"

Max grinned, rolling his shoulders. "Felt like flying," he admitted. "Like my dad was right there with me, y’know?" He didn’t mention the way his stomach had lurched during warm-ups, or how he’d traced his father’s initials on his stick tape before the first period. Some things were too fragile for words.

Damon materialized behind them, reeking of sweat and victory. "Amazing save, Golden Boy!" He slung an arm over both their shoulders, ignoring Killian’s grimace. "Celebratory drinks? Or are we pretending you’re not a legend yet?"

"Stay back," Killian growled, ducking away from Damon’s damp jersey. "And you’re not corrupting him. Look." He jerked his chin toward the stands, where fans pressed against security barriers. "He’s got a reputation to uphold."

Max turned toward the crowd, signing sticks and laughing at overexcited kids. A teenager shoved a jersey at him, marker clutched in shaking hands. "Dude! You were insane on that breakaway!"

"Thanks, man! Though I think the ice tilted in my favour," Max joked, scribbling his number with a flourish.

From behind him, Liam's voice cut through: "Kid's being modest. That toe drag? Pure filth." The veteran defenseman appeared at Max's shoulder, giving the teen a wink. "Bet your coach makes you watch the tape tomorrow."

Killian joined them, arms crossed like a bouncer. "Should charge admission for that handsomeness," he grumbled, eyeing the growing line of fans.

"Aw, Killer," Max grinned, "you think I'm handsome?"

"I think you're trouble," Killian corrected, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He snatched the marker from Max's hand. "Move along, hotshot. Other kids want signatures too."

As Max shifted down the line, Liam kept pace beside him. "So," the defenseman said casually, "how many numbers you collected tonight?"

Max blinked. "Huh?"

"Phone numbers, rookie." Liam smirked. "Or are we still in the 'holding hands is scandalous' phase?"

Killian snorted. "Don't tease him, Zhang. Kid turns redder than our home jerseys."

"Not true!" Max protested, immediately flushing. A little girl in a Vultures beanie giggled at him, and he crouched to her eye level. "Don't listen to them, yeah? Who should I make this out to?"

"Emily! With a Y!"

"Emily-with-a-Y, coming right up." As he signed, Killian and Liam continued their commentary just loud enough to hear.

"Remember that bar last month?" Liam stage-whispered. "When the waitress winked at him?"

Killian shuddered. "Like watching a baby deer see headlights for the first time."

Max groaned, handing back the signed puck. "You're both the worst."

"And yet," Liam said, slinging an arm around Max's shoulders, "you love us."

"Debatable," Killian muttered, but he was scanning the crowd like a Secret Service agent. When a group of college-aged girls started whispering and pointing, he stepped subtly between them and Max. "Focus, golden boy. Less blushing, more signing."

Max opened his mouth to retort when movement caught his eye-a kid, maybe ten, hovering near the stairs. The kid fidgeted, eyes darting between the players and the exit, like he was waiting for someone.

Max kept half an eye on them. Probably lost their mom in the crowd.

Then-disaster. The kid's shoelaces tangled, and he pitched forward toward the concrete steps.

"Shit-hey, kid!"

Max lunged, snagging the kid's collar and yanking him back hard enough that the kid thudded against his chest.

"Christ! You okay?" Max crouched, hands on the kid's shoulders. Wide-eyed, the kid nodded, still gripping Max’s sleeve like a lifeline.

"Okay, good. Where’s your-?"

Frantic footsteps cut him off.

Max straightened, holding up a hand. "Don’t worry, ma’am, he’s fine! Just a close call." Then she looked up at him-really looked-and his pulse spiked.

Oh no. Pretty. Very pretty.

Definitely older. Was that his type? What kind of awakening was this? She has a kid! She could be married! He really hoped she wasn't.

His mouth moved before his brain caught up. "I-I could walk you to your car, make sure no more slips happen off the ice?" Christ, why did I say that?

Max grinned, rubbing his neck. "Okay, that was bad. Let’s try again. Hi, I’m Max. I promise I’m better at hockey than talking." Lies. He could talk very well.

Just not in front of someone so pretty.