Page 10

S tephanie

Stephanie watched from the press box as the Charm City Chill took the ice for warmups. Her professional mask was firmly in place—back straight, clipboard in hand, expression neutral—despite the butterflies that erupted in her stomach every time number 47 skated into view.

Sixty-two hours until the hackers deadline, and they still didn’t know what Reed wanted. And yet, here she was acting like a teenager with her first crush. Completely unprofessional. Absolutely reckless. She couldn't bring herself to regret a single moment of last night's interrupted encounter.

After Marcus had left for the video session, she'd spent twenty minutes pacing her hotel room, alternating between analyzing what had happened and remembering the feel of his hands on her skin. The pressure of his fingers finding each knot in her muscles. The heat in his eyes when she'd turned to face him. The surprising softness of his lips against hers. They'd been interrupted before things went too far, but the direction had been crystal clear—and mutual.

Now, watching him move through warmup drills, Stephanie noticed details she'd previously overlooked. The power in his stride as he built speed, pushing off with controlled force rather than flashy moves like some of the forwards. The way his shoulders set before taking a shot, a subtle tell she'd somehow missed despite watching hundreds of practices. The intensity in his eyes when Coach Vicky demonstrated a defensive adjustment, as if he was calculating angles and probabilities in real time.

Man, she was in trouble.

"Earth to Stephanie," a voice beside her said.

Stephanie startled, nearly dropping her clipboard as she turned to find Lauren, Jax's wife and the team's unofficial "captain of significant others," looking at her with knowing amusement. Lauren’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her Chill scarf draped artfully around her shoulders.

"Sorry," Stephanie said, shifting seamlessly to PR director mode, a professional smile sliding into place. "Monitoring player routines for media storylines."

"Uh-huh." Lauren smirked, her perfectly arched eyebrows rising. "And your monitoring requires staring at a certain number forty-seven for the past five minutes straight?"

Heat rushed to Stephanie's cheeks. Was she that transparent? "I wasn't—"

"Save it." Lauren grinned, bumping Stephanie's shoulder with her own. "Jax told me about your and Marcus working together. I'm just surprised it took this long for you two to figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Stephanie maintained her innocent expression, though the flutter in her chest betrayed her.

"That the reason you've been fighting like cats and dogs for a year is because you're crazy about each other."

Stephanie opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. There was no point pretending with Lauren, who had an uncanny ability to see through people's defenses. It was what made her such an effective liaison between the players' partners and the team—she could spot a lie from the owner's box.

"It's complicated," she said instead, fidgeting with the corner of her clipboard. "With the ownership transition—"

"It's always complicated," Lauren interrupted gently, her teasing tone softening. "That's relationships in hockey. But worth it."

Before Stephanie could respond, a commotion on the ice drew their attention. Marcus had collided with one of Toronto's forwards during a drill, sending both players crashing into the boards. The forward took exception, shoving Marcus as they disentangled.

Stephanie's body tensed without conscious command, her fingers gripping the railing as she watched the confrontation with more personal investment than she'd ever felt during previous on-ice incidents. Marcus simply squared up, saying something too quiet to hear that made the Toronto player back off immediately.

"He can handle himself," Lauren said softly, correctly reading Stephanie's concern.

"I know." Stephanie tried to regain her professional distance, to remember that she'd managed dozens of on-ice altercations without this twist of worry in her gut. "I just don't need a pre-game incident to manage."

"Right. That's definitely why your knuckles are white on the railing."

Stephanie released her grip, flexing fingers that had gone stiff, and shot Lauren a look. "Don't you have pre-game enforcer wifey duties to attend to?"

Lauren laughed, the sound warm and knowing. "I'm going. But Steph?" She paused at the press box door, her expression softening. "The team already considers you family. Dating one of the players just makes it official."

As Lauren left, Stephanie turned back to the ice, where Marcus was now working on penalty kill positioning with Jax. Dating. The word seemed inadequate for whatever was developing between them—a complex equation of professional alliance, mutual attraction, and something deeper she wasn't ready to name.

On the ice, Marcus glanced up toward the press box, his eyes finding hers with unerring accuracy. Even from a distance, the connection between them was electric, like a power play developing with perfect precision. He gave a barely perceptible nod before returning his attention to Coach Vicky's instructions.

That tiny acknowledgment shouldn't have affected her so strongly. Yet Stephanie's heart raced like she'd just sprinted the length of the arena, and warmth bloomed across her skin despite the arena's perpetual chill.

Her phone pinged with a group text. She glanced down, expecting a media update from Oliver.

Instead, her blood froze. The message had been sent to both her and Marcus from an unknown number:

Ten thousand dollars from each of you or the data goes public. Venmo it to this number.

A countdown clock appeared underneath the message. Sixty-one hours and fifty-two minutes until the deadline.

Stephanie's gaze snapped back to Marcus on the ice, just as his head jerked up. He must have received the text too. Their eyes locked, and even across the distance, she could see the tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes that most would miss.

The clock ticking on her carefully maintained professional boundaries suddenly felt even more urgent than the countdown on her phone.

***

M ARCUS

The Chill's 4-2 victory over Toronto should have felt like a perfect defensive game. Marcus had broken up three odd-man rushes, blocked seven shots, and scored on a rocket from the point in the second period. Yet as he stood in the visitor's locker room, muscles aching and sweat cooling on his skin, his mind was scattered—something that hadn't happened since he was a nervous rookie.

His phone vibrated in his stall. Expecting a notification from the team's travel coordinator, he glanced down at the screen and froze.

An unknown number had sent a group text to both him and Stephanie:

Ten thousand dollars from each of you or the data goes public. Venmo it to this number.

Below it, a countdown clock: 59:52:13... 59:52:12... 59:52:11...

Almost two hours had passed since Stephanie would have seen it. Marcus's jaw clenched, a cold fury settling in his chest, replacing the post-game adrenaline. He scanned the locker room, checking if anyone had noticed his reaction. His teammates were occupied with their usual routines—Dmitri loudly recounting his goal, Kane fielding questions from reporters in the corner, others quietly stripping off gear.

Marcus typed quickly: Got the message. Need to talk.

Stephanie's response came seconds later: On the bus. Not before.

She was right. Eyes and ears everywhere.

Across the room, Chenny was hunched over his phone, his hair still damp from the shower. Marcus was going to get him involved. Chenny might be able to help them pin everything on Reed. But approaching Oliver about it would have to wait until they had a more private moment.

Marcus methodically completed his post-game routine, his movements automatic while his mind calculated angles and scenarios. Reed had to be behind this. The timing, the target, the approach—it all aligned with his pattern of operations. The pieces fit, but they couldn't prove it. Not yet.

By the time he boarded the team bus, most players were already seated, either sleeping or buried in phones and tablets for the ride to the airport hotel. Their flight back to New Haven wasn't until morning, but the team was staying at the Toronto airport Marriott to minimize travel time.

Marcus headed for his usual spot in the middle, finding Stephanie already seated there, an empty spot beside her. She was dressed in her usual post-game attire—tailored slacks and a blouse under a Chill-branded quarter-zip—but her hair was down around her shoulders, and tension radiated from her usually composed form.

She looked up as he approached, a flash of relief crossing her features.

"This seat taken?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral.

"I saved it for a breakdown of tonight's defensive coverage," she replied, the slight tremor in her voice betraying her calm expression.

Marcus sat, immediately aware of her thigh pressing against his. "Twenty thousand dollars," he said quietly, pitching his voice below the ambient noise of the bus. "That's their opening demand."

"I know." Under the cover of darkness as the bus pulled away from the arena, Stephanie's hand found his, gripping tightly. "I don't have that kind of money, Marcus. Not with what I've been paying in legal fees since Boston."

The reference to her previous career implosion reminded him of the stakes. He squeezed her hand, anger simmering beneath his controlled exterior.

"We're not paying," he said firmly. "It won't stop with one payment."

Stephanie turned slightly toward him, their faces close enough that he could see the fear behind her professional mask. "If this data gets out, I'm finished. Second PR disaster in three years? No team will touch me."

"And I'd be seen as betraying the team," Marcus finished, the muscle in his jaw working. "They'd think I was cataloging their weaknesses to make myself look better."

"Your contract renewal—"

"Would be DOA," he finished. "I've run the projections."

The countdown clock on his phone now read 58:43:27. Nearly an hour had passed since he'd seen the message. Time was slipping away.

Around them, the bus was quiet—some players already dozing, others lost in music or conversation. In the shadows of their seats, they existed in their own world of crisis.

"It has to be Reed," Marcus said, certainty hardening his tone. "Working with Ramirez."

"I think so too, but we can't prove it," Stephanie replied, frustration evident in her voice. "And without proof, we can't go to Westfield or Montgomery."

A few rows ahead of them, Marcus spotted Chenny with headphones on, fingers flying over his tablet. The tech-savvy winger might be their best chance at uncovering the truth.

"Chenny could help us," Marcus said quietly. "His cybersecurity knowledge is better than mine."

"Can we trust him with this?" Stephanie asked, studying Chenny's profile.

"He understands discretion. His anxiety channel has taught him about keeping confidences." Marcus had analyzed all his teammates' psychological profiles as part of his performance metrics. Chenny was private, dependable, and had a strong sense of justice.

"We should talk to him on the flight tomorrow," Stephanie decided. "More privacy. Less chance of being overheard."

Marcus nodded, pieces falling into place. "Reed wants both our positions. Analytics and communications under his control. This financial pressure is just the mechanism."

"Classic Reed," Stephanie's voice held bitter knowledge. "He always finds leverage. In Boston, it was doctored emails. Here, it's your player analytics."

Marcus stared out the window at the Toronto skyline receding in the distance, mind working through possibilities. "If we can prove Reed is behind this, we have leverage."

Stephanie's eyes widened slightly. "You want to counter-blackmail a blackmailer?"

"I want to neutralize a threat." His voice was cold, precise. "Reed miscalculated. He thinks financial pressure will make us fold. He doesn't understand what happens when you corner someone who calculates odds for a living."

"And what happens?" Stephanie asked, studying his face.

"They identify your weaknesses and exploit them." The simple statement held a promise of methodical retribution that surprised even Marcus.

The bus hit a bump, jostling them closer together. Neither made an effort to reestablish distance.

"This won't be easy," Stephanie murmured, fatigue evident in her voice despite the tension still visible in her shoulders. "Reed has connections throughout the league."

"So do we," Marcus countered, already planning his approach to Chenny. "The team trusts us more than they trust ownership."

Stephanie's head dipped slightly, brushing his shoulder. "We have less than sixty hours to figure this out."

"Fifty-eight hours and thirty-nine minutes," Marcus corrected, the precision providing some sense of control over a situation that felt increasingly chaotic.

Her soft laugh held little humor. "Always exact, aren't you?"

"It's who I am."

"And I wouldn't want you any other way," she admitted, the words slipping out as if surprising even her.

The bus slowed as it approached the airport hotel, lights from the lobby spilling across the parking lot. Stephanie straightened, her mask of professionalism sliding back into place, but her hand remained firmly in his.

"Stay with me tonight," she said quietly, the request carrying multiple layers of meaning. "I don't want to be alone with this hanging over us."

Marcus studied her in the dim light, noting the vulnerability beneath her practiced composure. The request wasn't just about physical comfort or connection—it was about facing a threat together.

"Of course," he replied simply.

Around them, players began stirring as the bus came to a stop. Dmitri stretched dramatically, Jax collected his bags, and Kane called out room assignments. In the shuffle of movement, Stephanie's fingers disengaged from his, but her eyes held the connection.

"I'll come to your room after check-in," Marcus said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

She nodded, relief softening the tension in her shoulders momentarily.

As they exited the bus, Marcus caught sight of Chenny, tablet tucked under his arm. Tomorrow on the flight, they would bring him into their confidence. As Marcus followed Stephanie into the hotel, he felt a strange certainty amid the chaos. Reed had miscalculated. He thought threatening them financially would drive them apart, force them to make individual decisions to protect themselves.

He hadn't counted on them trusting each other to work together. And Marcus hadn’t imagined that he would spend the night with a woman he cared about deeply while the threat of blackmail hung over their heads.

But some moments were worth savoring, even with the clock running down.