Page 14

S tephanie

24 Hours remaining

Stephanie had lied to a lot of people in her PR career. White lies, strategic omissions, half-truths—they were professional tools, not character flaws. But selling Jack Westfield on inviting Preston Reed to the executive box tonight required her A-game.

"I think it would demonstrate our professional maturity," she said, perched on the edge of the visitor's chair in Westfield's office. "Reed and I may have had our differences in Boston, but if he's consulting on this transition, we should at least be civil."

Westfield's eyebrows lifted slightly. "That's unexpected coming from you, Stephanie."

"I'm practical," she replied, ignoring the churning in her stomach whenever she thought about Reed. "Besides, Columbus is always a good game. Their enforcer Diedrich usually puts on a show."

"Very well. I'll extend the invitation." Westfield leaned back, studying her. "Have you given any more thought to my offer?"

The promotion that would consolidate Communications and Analytics—right when Reed was threatening to destroy both departments with his blackmail scheme. The irony wasn't lost on her.

"I'm still considering it," she replied. "It's a significant change."

"Indeed." Westfield checked his watch. "I have a call in five. Anything else?"

"Yes," Stephanie said, keeping her voice casual. "I'd like to have Chilly make an appearance in the executive box during first intermission. The mascot photos always do well on social."

"The penguin?" Westfield frowned. "Is that necessary?"

"The mascot program brings in over thirty thousand in annual sponsorship revenue," Stephanie countered, knowing executives responded to numbers. "Plus, it adds energy to the luxury box experience."

Westfield sighed. "Fine. First intermission only. And tell whoever's in that costume not to spill anything. The suite was just recarpeted."

"I'll make sure they know." Stephanie stood, feeling the first piece slide into place. "Thank you."

In the hallway, she took a deep breath before heading for the mascot department. Phase one: done. Phase two: secure a mascot performance so distracting it would give Chenny his window.

The mascot department was in the arena's basement, filled with costume parts, sewing machines, and the smell of sweat masked by air freshener. Phoebe Tayler was working on Chilly's penguin head when Stephanie walked in.

"Hey, Phoebe," Stephanie said, closing the door behind her. "Got a minute?"

Phoebe looked up, setting aside her work. "Ms. Ellis! Sure, what's up?" She wiped blue fuzz from her hands onto her jeans.

"Please, it's Stephanie." She smiled. "I need Chilly in the executive box during first intermission tonight."

"No problem," Phoebe nodded. "Standard routine?"

"Actually, I need something bigger. The most engaging five minutes you've got in your repertoire. Something that will keep everyone's attention completely locked on you."

Phoebe raised her eyebrows. "Any special reason?"

"Ownership transition," Stephanie said simply. "We need to showcase the full entertainment value of your program. Budgets are being reviewed."

"Say no more." Phoebe grinned. "I've been working on this dance number that always gets a reaction."

"Perfect." Stephanie handed her a small earpiece. "Wear this. I'll cue you when to start and finish."

"Got it." Phoebe took the earpiece. "I'll keep everyone's eyes on me, don't worry."

"I never do." Stephanie checked her watch. "And this stays between us. No need for anyone else to know the details."

Phoebe nodded, turning back to her costume. "I'll deliver. They won't look away for a second."

Walking away from the mascot department, Stephanie felt her pulse quicken. The adrenaline of crisis management, of setting pieces in motion that could either save or destroy everything she'd built.

And then there was Marcus. The man who'd gone from professional irritant to essential partner to... something else she wasn't ready to name. The way he looked at her now—like she was a puzzle worth solving, not just an obstacle to his data-driven worldview—made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with their current crisis.

Her phone buzzed with a text: Supply closet by training room in 20?

She glanced at her watch. The PR director in her said no—too risky with Reed in the building. The woman who remembered Marcus's hands on her skin in Toronto had other ideas.

15 minutes. Don't be late.

She typed back, then tucked her phone away before she could second-guess herself.

Twenty-six hours until potential career destruction, and here she was arranging closet rendezvous with the team's analytical defenseman.

She'd clearly lost her mind.

Stephanie rounded the corner and nearly collided with Coach Vicky.

"Looking for someone?" Vicky asked, arms crossed.

"Just heading to review media protocols," Stephanie replied smoothly. "Game day prep."

Vicky's eyes narrowed. "Something's off with you lately. And with Adeyemi. And now Chenny's acting strange too."

"New ownership tension," Stephanie said. "Everyone's feeling it."

"Uh-huh." Vicky didn't look convinced. "Whatever's going on, fix it before it affects my team's performance."

"There's nothing—"

"Save it for the reporters, Ellis." Vicky cut her off. "Just make sure whatever you're up to doesn't blow back on this team. We've worked too hard to let off-ice drama derail us."

As Vicky walked away, Stephanie checked her watch again. Ten minutes until her meeting with Marcus. Ten minutes to finalize the most dangerous plan she'd ever attempted.

And less than twenty-four hours until Reed either destroyed both their careers or they somehow stopped him.

The odds weren't good. But then again, she'd always been willing to bet against the spread.

***

M ARCUS

19 hours remaining

Marcus settled into his defensive stance, eyes tracking the Columbus center as he crossed the blue line. His body operated on trained instinct, muscles firing in sequence as he pivoted to cut off the passing lane. But his mind was elsewhere—specifically, in the executive suite where Stephanie was executing their plan.

Eight minutes into the first period, and all he could think about was that supply closet.

The way she'd gasped when he'd lifted her against the wall, her legs wrapping around his waist as if they'd been designed to fit there. The soft curse she'd whispered against his neck when his hands slipped under her blouse. The way she'd insisted they still looked professional when they emerged, though her lipstick was smudged at the corner and his tie would never be the same.

"Heads up, Spreadsheets!" Jax barked, snapping him back to the present as Columbus's second line crashed toward them.

Marcus reset, positioning his stick to disrupt the cross-ice pass he saw developing. Their center tried it anyway—predictable—and Marcus intercepted cleanly, sending the puck up the boards to Kane.

Fifteen minutes until intermission. Fifteen minutes until Stephanie created the distraction that would give Chenny access to Reed's laptop. Twenty-four minutes of pretending his entire career and hers weren't hanging in the balance, all while Dietrich kept targeting their most tech-savvy player.

As if summoned by the thought, Dietrich crushed Chenny into the boards right in front of the Columbus bench. The hit was clean but unnecessarily vicious for this early in the game. Chenny popped up immediately, skating backward with a smirk.

"Getting slow in your old age," Chenny chirped, just loud enough for the officials and nearby players to hear. "Hitting like you've got arthritis."

Dietrich's face darkened, but the whistle blew before he could respond, sending both teams to their respective benches for a TV timeout.

"Don't overdo it," Marcus muttered as they sat down, keeping his voice low.

"I got this." Chenny took a long drink of water.

Marcus reviewed the timeline. Chenny needed to get tossed from the game with ten minutes left in the period. That would give him enough time to get to get his stuff and be at the executive level before intermission so he was there to take the laptop case from Stephanie.

Coach Vicky paced behind them, reviewing defensive zone coverage with the forwards. Marcus half-listened, eyes drifting up toward the executive box. He couldn't see Stephanie from the bench—just the occasional flash of movement behind tinted glass. The thought of her up there, playing her part while Reed lurked nearby, made his jaw clench.

When had she become so important? When had his carefully calibrated life expanded to include a variable as unpredictable and essential as Stephanie?

The whistle blew, ending the timeout. As Marcus stood, Jax caught his arm.

"You good?" his defensive partner asked, eyes narrowed. "You're distracted as fuck."

"Fine," Marcus replied, sliding his mouthguard back in.

"Better be. Dietrich's looking for blood tonight."

Back on the ice, Marcus forced himself to focus. Ten seconds into the shift, Columbus dumped the puck into their zone. He retrieved it smoothly, absorbing a hit from their forechecking winger. As he looked for an outlet pass, he spotted Chenny hovering near Dietrich behind the play, saying something that made the larger man's shoulders stiffen.

Their eyes met briefly across the ice. Chenny gave an imperceptible nod. The timeline was accelerating.

The next five minutes were a blur of physical hockey. Columbus seemed determined to establish dominance, finishing every check and digging hard for loose pucks. The Chill matched their intensity, with Kane scoring on a slick wrist shot that silenced the hostile crowd.

Through it all, Marcus kept one eye on Chenny, who was engaged in an escalating shadow war with Dietrich. Each time they crossed paths, Chenny would say something or give a little slash behind the play—not enough for a penalty, but enough to build tension.

With 11:20 left in the period, Dietrich caught Chenny with a high hit that sent him sprawling. No call from the officials. Chenny popped up, spitting blood from a cut lip, eyes blazing.

"Time," Marcus heard him mutter as they crossed paths during a line change.

The next shift unfolded with the inevitability of a penalty kill gone wrong. Chenny accelerated into the Columbus zone, deked around their defenseman, and drove hard to the net. As the goalie covered the puck, Chenny gave him a light snow shower—a minor hockey sin that never failed to infuriate.

Dietrich was on him instantly, shoving Chenny into the goalpost. Officials moved in to separate them, but Chenny had other plans.

"How's your wife?" Chenny taunted, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "She's still keeping my DMs hot. Says you can't satisfy her."

Dietrich exploded, throwing off his gloves and grabbing Chenny's jersey. "You're dead!"

What followed wasn't so much a fight as a calculated assault. Chenny ducked the first punch and then launched himself at Dietrich with unexpected ferocity, landing a vicious uppercut that rocked the bigger man backward. Blood sprayed as Chenny's fist connected with Dietrich's nose—a clean break by the look of it.

Before anyone could react, Chenny had thrown Dietrich to the ice and was raining down punches, catching the linesman with an elbow as he tried to intervene. It took three officials to drag him away, his face a mask of manufactured rage.

"Get him out of here!" the referee shouted, signaling a five-minute major and game misconduct.

Marcus winced. He’d have to make sure that Columbus couldn’t take advantage of the power play.

The crowd was in an uproar. Coach Vicky looked furious, which was exactly the point. No one would suspect this was planned—not when Chenny had just displayed a level of aggression he'd never shown in his entire career.

As he skated toward the tunnel, blood streaking his jersey from both his own and Dietrich's injuries, Chenny caught Marcus's eye one last time. He spit a mouthful of blood onto the ice—pure theater—and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Mission in progress.

Marcus returned to the bench, settling in for the penalty kill. Ten minutes left in the period. Ten minutes until intermission. Ten minutes until Stephanie would create the distraction that would give Chenny access to Reed's laptop.

And all he could think about was how much he hated not being able to protect her himself.

The realization hit him like a blindside check. This wasn't just about their careers anymore. Wasn't just about beating Reed or preserving their professional futures. Somewhere between their first heated argument about analytics versus narrative and that stolen moment in the supply closet, Stephanie had become essential to him in a way that defied statistical analysis.

Marcus Adeyemi, who built his life around predictability and patterns, was falling in love with the most unpredictable woman he'd ever met.

The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it settled into place like the final piece of a puzzle he hadn't realized he was solving.

As the penalty kill unit took the ice, Marcus channeled his newfound clarity into pure defensive focus. Reed wasn't just threatening their careers now.

He was threatening their future.

.