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S tephanie

Stephanie tried to look engaged as Westfield explained the finer points of the powerplay strategy to Reed, who nodded with feigned interest while stealing glances at the laptop bag by the couch. She'd returned it to exactly where he'd left it, but his periodic checks made her stomach knot. Did he suspect something?

Below on the ice, Marcus led the penalty kill unit with a vengeance. The Chill had managed to tie the game at 2-2, but Columbus was pressing hard, hungry for the lead.

"Your goaltender's positioning is exceptional," Reed commented, gesturing with his scotch toward Liam Castillo. "Smart investment."

"Marcus's defensive system makes him look even better," Stephanie said, unable to stop herself from giving credit where it was due. "Their coordination is what's keeping us competitive."

Reed turned to her with that smug half-smile that made her skin crawl. "I've always been fascinated by your loyalty, Stephanie. Even in Boston, you had your favorites."

She let the zinger pass over her head. It was obvious he was trying to sabotage her to Westfield’s face so that when he exposed the data tomorrow. She needed a diversion, something to redirect the conversation away from dangerous territory.

"Actually," she said, turning to Westfield, "I've been giving your proposal considerable thought."

“Good.”

She set down her glass. "I don't see the value of merging the two departments. There’s no need to change things. It’s been working, and working well with separate leadership."

Reed's attention sharpened—exactly as she'd intended. Nothing distracted men like Reed more effectively than a perceived challenge to their expertise.

"Analytics requires specialized knowledge," she continued, warming to her argument. "The mathematical models we’ve been using deserve dedicated focus."

“Didn’t Marcus Adeyemi come up with them?” Reed asked.

“He did.”

“So you’re saying a hockey player’s input is more important than someone with a business degree?” Reed scoffed.

“Marcus does have a business degree.”

Reed blinked at her, surprised.

She couldn’t believe he hadn’t done a deep dive on Marcus. He had just underestimated him as a dumb hockey player.

"An interesting perspective." Westfield studied her, clearly reassessing his assumptions. "You're advocating against your own promotion?"

"I'm advocating for organizational effectiveness," Stephanie corrected, keeping her expression professionally neutral despite her racing heart. "Communications and Analytics should collaborate closely but maintain distinct identities."

“I suppose the some of Adeyemi’s analytics require technical expertise that most communications professionals lack," Westfield said thoughtfully.

Stephanie bit back the urge to tell him that with proper training anyone could learn them. That wouldn’t help her argument.

"I've implemented similar systems across multiple organizations," Reed replied, his false modesty transparent.

Stephanie glared at him.

"Perhaps there's a middle ground,” he said unexpectedly.

“Wait,” she said, seeing the trap closing in around her.

Westfield nodded slowly, stroking his chin. "With you overseeing Analytics and Stephanie remaining in Communications."

The suggestion hit her like a body check. This wasn't at all what she'd intended.

"That would be ideal," Reed said, not bothering to hide his satisfaction. "I could ensure the analytics integration proceeds smoothly while respecting the unique requirements of both departments."

And if he managed to get rid of both her and Marcus, he’d have it all. Stephanie fought to keep her expression neutral as Reed's smugness filled the executive box. This was backfiring spectacularly. In trying to protect Marcus's analytics, she might have just delivered it to her enemy.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket—once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Chenny's signal.

"I've just had a thought," she said, standing suddenly. "We should toast to this new direction. The suite's champagne supply seems depleted, but I know where to find the reserve stock. Excuse me for a moment."

She didn't wait for a response, moving toward the door with measured steps that belied her internal panic. Once in the hallway, she checked the message:

Laptop in equipment closet, 30 feet left. Deleted blackmail files and installed tracker. Located backup server. Sent virus. Original data corrupted.

Relief washed through her so intensely that her knees nearly buckled. Chenny had done it. The immediate threat was neutralized. But Reed's smug assurance that he'd be taking over Analytics meant they weren't safe yet.

She located the closet and found the laptop precisely where Chenny had promised. As she picked it up, the weight of what they were doing—hacking, corporate espionage, potentially career-ending ethical violations—settled on her shoulders. Yet she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Not when Reed had made it clear he would destroy them without hesitation.

Stephanie glanced back toward the suite, making sure no one had followed her. Then, laptop in hand, she went in search of the extra champagne. She’d hide the laptop in the box and carry it into the suite and while the server poured the drinks, she’d find a way to slip the laptop back into the case when Reed wasn’t looking.

***

M ARCUS

The win felt like a technicality.

Marcus sat in front of his locker, unwrapping the tape from his stick with methodical precision. Every tug echoed too loudly in the subdued space. No music blasted from the speakers. No one chirped Dmitri for his missed open net or razzed Ethan for his offside blunder in the third. Even Kane’s usual post-game whoop was conspicuously absent.

Across the room, Liam peeled off his pads in slow, deliberate motions, sweat still clinging to his jawline. His brow furrowed as he studied the floor like it might explain how they’d almost lost this one.

“Ugly as sin,” Noah muttered, flexing one knee and grimacing as something popped. “But still a W.”

“Barely.” Mateo leaned back on the bench, already thumbing through Instagram with a forced smile. “We win like that in the playoffs, we’re going home early.”

Dmitri let out a snort, tossing his helmet into his bag with a little more force than necessary. “Win is win,” he said, his Russian accent thickening. “You want beauty contest, go figure skating.”

“Tell that to Chenny,” Ethan blurted out, then looked instantly regretful.

The room fell a little quieter.

Marcus glanced at the empty stall next to Jax’s. Chenny and his dog Charlie’s absence loomed louder than anything else. No tap-tap-tap of his sticks on the floor. No sarcastic one-liners. Just a folded towel where his jersey should’ve been. Coach Vicky sent him home and fined him a few grand. Marcus had already Venmo’d him the money.

When Vicky entered with an iPad in hand, everyone went silent. “League ruling’s in. Three-game suspension. No appeal.”

A low curse rolled out from Jax.

Kane’s head dropped, and he muttered something under his breath that Marcus couldn’t hear but could guess.

“Dietrich deserved it,” Dmitri growled, pacing now. “That goon milked it.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“I’m not going to waste breath rehashing what you all saw out there,” she said, scanning the room. Her hazel eyes paused—too long—on Marcus, and the skin on the back of his neck prickled. “But if we keep playing like we’ve got one eye on a soap opera and the other on the jumbotron, it won’t matter what our record is. We’ll be out before we even hit Round One.”

No one answered. No one dared.

She turned, her voice dropping to a quieter, more dangerous register. “I don’t care what’s happening with consultants or contracts or who threw the last punch. I care what happens between the blue lines. Clean it up.”

And just like that, she walked out. The door thudded closed behind her.

Marcus stared down at the tape in his hands, now a loose, crumpled mess.

They’d won.

And yet, somehow, it felt like they were already losing.

He was halfway through unlacing his skates when he realized half the room was watching him.

It started with Jax, sitting two lockers down, arms crossed over his chest like a human wall. Then Kane turned, curiosity written all over his face. Dmitri leaned forward, elbows on his knees, green eyes sharp with something that looked almost like hope.

Even Ethan, who’d been staring into space since the suspension was announced, finally looked up.

Marcus sighed, tugged off his left skate, and met Kane’s gaze head-on. “Just ask.”

“What happened?” Kane asked. “With Reed. With Chenny. With all of it.”

Marcus wiped a hand down his face. He wasn’t used to being the center of the room unless he was diagramming passing lanes.

He kept his voice low. “The plan worked. Stephanie got the laptop. Chenny planted the tracker and deleted the blackmail files. The backups too. They’re gone.”

For a beat, no one said anything.

Then Jax let out a low whistle. “Holy shit.”

“No kidding,” Liam muttered from across the room. “You’re saying it’s over?”

Marcus nodded. “Reed can’t leak anything. Not without exposing that he had the files in the first place.”

There was a moment—brief, but real—where the energy in the room actually shifted. Shoulders dropped. Kane exhaled, loud and dramatic.

“About damn time something went right,” Kane said, standing up and clapping Marcus on the shoulder.

“You need celebration,” Dmitri declared, already pulling a Chill hoodie over his head. “We go bar. First round on me. Maybe second round too.”

Matteo stood and pulled out his phone. “I’m texting Chenny. If we’re celebrating, he’s not sitting this one out.”

“He’s suspended,” Liam said, arching a brow.

“Exactly why he needs a drink,” Matteo replied, thumbs flying.

“Three drinks,” Dmitri corrected.

“Don’t get him arrested before he gets back on the ice,” Jax muttered.

As the team filtered out, laughter and banter replacing the earlier tension, Marcus let himself believe—for just a moment—that maybe they had won something tonight after all.

Even if the war wasn’t over, the locker room had found its heartbeat again.

And that was something.