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S tephanie

Stephanie took another small sip of her wine, careful to maintain the appearance of casual enjoyment while her nerves screamed for something stronger. The executive suite buzzed with conversation, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a premium view of the ice below. First period was winding down, and so far, everything was proceeding according to plan.

Almost too perfectly, which made her suspicious.

Reed stood near the bar, laptop bag resting against the couch where he'd carelessly tossed it when they'd arrived. He hadn't acknowledged her presence beyond a curt nod when she'd entered with Westfield. Better that way. The less interaction, the higher chance she could execute their plan without raising his suspicions.

"Excellent vintage," Westfield commented, appearing at her elbow with his own glass. "Pairs nicely with a home victory, wouldn't you say?"

"Always," Stephanie replied, summoning her professional smile. "Though Columbus is putting up quite a fight."

"Nothing our boys can't handle." He glanced toward the ice. "Your boy Adeyemi is having quite a game. Shutdown defense as usual."

Her boy. The phrase sent an unwelcome flush to her cheeks, which she disguised by taking another sip. "Marcus is consistently reliable in the defensive zone."

"Indeed. It's what makes him so valuable to the organization." Westfield's gaze lingered on her face, as if searching for a reaction. "Dependable. Steady. That's rare in this business."

Before Stephanie could respond, a roar erupted from the crowd below. All eyes in the suite turned toward the ice, where a scuffle was breaking out near the Columbus net.

"What the hell?" Reed moved toward the window, frowning.

Westfield joined him, leaning forward with interest. "Looks like Chenofski's getting into it with Dietrich."

Stephanie's pulse quickened. This was it—the distraction they needed on the ice to set up the executive suite distraction. With everyone's attention focused on the developing fight, she casually drifted toward the couch, positioning herself between the men and Reed's laptop bag.

"Chenofski? Really?" Reed sounded incredulous, his back to her. "Isn't he the anxiety case?"

"Usually," Westfield confirmed, both men completely absorbed in the action unfolding below.

With a subtle movement, Stephanie nudged the laptop bag with her foot, sliding it closer to the suite door. Everyone's attention remained fixed on the glass as Chenny threw a shocking uppercut that connected with Dietrich's face.

"Holy shit," one of the corporate sponsors exclaimed. "Kid's got a right hook!"

Blood splattered the ice as officials rushed to separate the players. The suite erupted in commentary, giving Stephanie cover to edge the bag another foot closer to the door. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her face remained a mask of professional interest.

Just as the officials dragged Chenny toward the penalty box, Reed turned abruptly. His eyes narrowed, gaze dropping to the floor where his bag now sat several feet from its original position.

Stephanie froze, champagne flute halfway to her lips. Had he noticed?

"Food's here," announced a server, pushing through the door with a cart of upscale pub fare. The timing couldn't have been more perfect.

Reed frowned, clearly trying to recall where he'd left his belongings, when Westfield thrust a plate toward him.

"Try the gourmet dogs. They've got that truffle aioli you liked last time."

Reed hesitated, glancing once more at his bag before accepting the plate. "Thanks."

Stephanie released the breath she'd been holding, making a mental note to give the catering staff a substantial tip. As Reed and Westfield returned their attention to the ensuing five-minute major penalty, she checked her watch. Seven minutes until Chilly was scheduled to arrive. Then all hell would break loose—by design.

The next few minutes passed in excruciating slowness. Stephanie circulated through the suite, making small talk with sponsors while keeping one eye on Reed's laptop bag and the other on the door. Reed seemed to have forgotten about his belongings, now engaged in an animated conversation with Westfield about revenue projections.

The buzzer sounded, marking the end of the first period. Perfect timing.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Stephanie announced, raising her voice slightly. "As a special treat, we've arranged for a visit from everyone's favorite penguin."

On cue, the door burst open and Chilly bounded in, flippers waving enthusiastically as her handler followed close behind. The mascot immediately launched into an exaggerated dance routine, drawing laughs and applause from the suite occupants.

"Pictures! We need pictures," Stephanie encouraged, waving everyone toward the mascot. "Westfield, Reed—you should definitely get in on this. Great content for the corporate newsletter."

As the executives and sponsors crowded around Chilly, whose antics grew increasingly elaborate, Stephanie edged toward the door. Chilly knocked over an empty champagne flute—a planned "accident" that caused everyone to momentarily look down.

In that split-second, Stephanie grabbed the laptop bag and slipped into the corridor.

Her heart pounded as she crouched down, unzipping the bag with trembling fingers. The sleek black laptop inside looked ordinary enough, but it potentially contained everything they needed to stop Reed's blackmail scheme.

The sound of approaching footsteps made her look up. Chenny, face still bearing dried blood from the fight but now dressed in street clothes, appeared around the corner right on schedule.

"Hurry," Stephanie urged, passing him the laptop. "Bring it back up here and text me so I can grab it and put it back." She wasn’t sure how she was going to do that, but she’d figure that out when the time came. Depending on what Chenny was able to do, she might not even try to hide it.

Chenny nodded, tucking the computer under his arm. "I'll work fast."

"Good luck."

As Chenny disappeared down the service corridor, Stephanie took a deep breath, straightened her blazer, and counted to thirty before re-entering the suite with the empty laptop bag. The chaos inside continued unabated, with Chilly now leading an impromptu dance contest with the executives.

Reed was currently attempting what appeared to be the chicken dance, his back to the door as Stephanie slipped in and returned the bag to approximately its original position near the couch. She'd just straightened up when Phoebe, still in character as Chilly, gave her the signal—three rapid blinks of the mascot's LED eyes.

Time to wrap this up.

"Thank you, Chilly," Stephanie called out, checking her watch with practiced casualness. "I'm afraid our friend needs to make rounds to the other boxes before second period."

A chorus of good-natured protests followed, but Chilly obediently began her goodbyes, posing for final photos before bouncing toward the exit. As the mascot left, the intermission horn sounded, and attention returned to the ice where players were skating out for the second period.

"What a delightful tradition," Westfield commented, returning to the bar for a refill. "The children in the family boxes must love that."

"Brand loyalty starts young," Stephanie replied smoothly, allowing herself to breathe normally for the first time in fifteen minutes.

Reed settled back onto the couch, reaching for his laptop bag without a second glance. He'd notice nothing amiss—not until Chenny returned the computer, hopefully with the blackmail threat neutralized.

Stephanie moved to the window, looking down at the ice where Marcus was taking his position for the opening faceoff of the second period. From this distance, she couldn't make out his expression, but she knew his body language well enough to see the tension in his shoulders.

Hold on, she thought. Just a little longer.

She glanced at her watch again. Seven hours and twenty minutes until Reed's deadline. And now, finally, they had a fighting chance.

***

M ARCUS

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"

Coach Vicky's voice bounced off the concrete walls of the locker room, making even Jax Thompson—all six-foot-four, two-hundred-forty pounds of him—flinch. Her face had progressed beyond red to a dangerous shade of purple.

"Seventeen goddamn shots against in ONE PERIOD!" She slammed a whiteboard marker against the tactical board so hard it snapped in half. "That's not hockey, that's a fucking shooting gallery!"

Marcus sat in his stall, sweat cooling uncomfortably on his skin as he removed his shin pads. The intermission clock showed fifteen minutes and counting. Fifteen minutes for Chenny to get the laptop. Fifteen minutes for the fate of their careers to be decided.

And while that played out, they were getting their asses handed to them by Coach.

"Where the FUCK is Chenofski?" Vicky rounded on Kane, as if the captain might have Chenny stashed under his jersey. "And where's his goddamn dog?"

No one answered. No one dared. They all knew Chenny was off somewhere using his computer skills on Reed's laptop, but none of them knew the why—only that Marcus had quietly asked them to cover for him if Coach asked.

Now, watching Vicky's vein throb in her forehead, Marcus realized he'd underestimated just how badly she'd react to the whole situation.

"First he loses his shit in a fight I've NEVER seen him start in three seasons, then he fucking disappears during intermission? With that suspension hanging over his head?" Vicky kicked an empty water bottle, sending it flying into the training room. "And you assholes are playing like you've never seen a forechecking scheme before!"

Marcus's guilt twisted deeper. He'd involved the team in his personal battle without fully considering the consequences. Chenny would face serious disciplinary action for his disappearance—possibly even a multi-game suspension if the league office got involved. All because Marcus had asked him to help.

"Dietrich's gonna be gunning for blood in the second," Vicky continued, pacing like a caged animal. "Their coach is probably in there telling them to finish every fucking check twice. And my best puck-moving defenseman just decided to take a fucking vacation!"

She whipped around, zeroing in on Marcus.

"Adeyemi. You're supposed to be the goddamn strategic genius. Tell me why our forecheck is getting shredded like wet toilet paper."

Every eye in the room turned to him. Marcus stood, his mind racing between the countdown to Reed's deadline and the tactical adjustments they needed to make.

"Their weak-side winger is cheating high," he said, keeping his voice level despite the tension thrumming through him. "Creates a three-on-two advantage on the strong side because our wingers are collapsing too deep."

He moved to the board, picking up the broken marker and sketching out the coverage adjustment. For these few minutes, he forced himself to focus solely on hockey analytics—the patterns and probabilities that had defined his career before Stephanie and Reed and blackmail had entered the equation.

"If we switch to an overload forecheck in the neutral zone, we can force them to the boards here." He circled a spot just beyond the blue line. "Their defensemen struggle with the quick transition. Stats show a forty-three percent drop in completed breakout passes when pressured from this angle."

Coach Vicky's fury didn't dissipate entirely, but her focus shifted to the board. "So we're conceding the middle to cut off the outlet?"

"Temporarily. Then we collapse back once possession is contested." Marcus drew the rotation. "Their forwards are on pace for nine high-danger chances this game. This adjustment cuts that projection to four."

The locker room fell silent except for the sound of equipment being adjusted and water bottles being squeezed. Marcus could feel every second ticking away—seconds Chenny needed for accessing the laptop, seconds Stephanie was up there with Reed.

"You're giving a lot of responsibility to our centers with this setup," Kane observed, studying the board.

"Because Columbus's centers have the worst turnover rate in the offensive zone," Marcus replied. "Sixty-seven percent when pressured from behind."

Vicky stared at the board for a long moment, then nodded sharply. "We'll try it. But—" she turned back to the team, fire still in her eyes, "—if I see ONE MORE lazy backcheck or missed assignment, I'm benching the whole goddamn line. We clear?"

A chorus of "Yes, Coach" echoed through the room.

"And somebody better find Chenofski before the third," she added, glaring at each player in turn. "Or I'll personally staple his ass to the bench for the next month."

As she stormed into the coach's room, the tension in the locker room eased by a fraction.

"Fuck," Jax muttered, pulling on his chest protector. "Haven't seen her that mad since that ref missed the high stick in Philly."

Kane moved closer to Marcus, voice low. "Chenny good?"

"Should be." But doubt gnawed at him. What if something had gone wrong? What if Reed had noticed the laptop missing? What if Stephanie had been caught?

Marcus checked the clock again. Seven minutes until they needed to retake the ice. Seven minutes that could determine whether they still had careers tomorrow.

"He better be," Kane said with a meaningful look. "Because Coach wasn't kidding about that stapling threat."

As the team began filing out for their pre-period stretches, Marcus hung back, pretending to adjust his skate laces. His mind raced with calculations and probabilities, but not about hockey this time.

Best case: Chenny would get the laptop, find the blackmail material, delete it, and return the computer without anyone noticing.

Worst case: Reed would catch them, the blackmail would go public, and their careers would be over in eight hours.

And where did Stephanie fit into those scenarios? The woman who'd somehow become the most important variable in his carefully ordered life. The woman currently executing her part of their desperate plan, trapped in a luxury box with the man who'd already tried to destroy her once.

Marcus made a promise to himself as he stood to join his teammates. Whatever happened with Reed and the blackmail, he would make this right for Chenny. He'd take full responsibility with Coach, with management, with the league if necessary.

And he'd find a way to keep Stephanie safe, even if it meant sacrificing the career he'd built.

"Adeyemi! Get your ass on the ice!" Coach Vicky's voice shattered his thoughts. "Second period in two minutes!"

Marcus grabbed his stick and headed for the tunnel, where the familiar sounds of the arena washed over him—crowd noise, skate blades on ice, pucks hitting boards. The routine of it steadied him, even as his mind remained split between the game ahead and what might be happening seven floors above him.

Whatever came next, there was no going back now. Not for any of them.