Page 17
M arcus
The Rusty Blade sat in the heart of New Haven like it had something to prove—low ceilings, sticky floors, and a beer list longer than its electrical inspection history. The team came here when they didn’t want to be recognized, or when they didn’t care if they were. Its neon sign flickered like it hadn’t committed to staying lit. Inside, the air carried the usual cocktail of sweat, fryer oil, and too many brands of IPA trying to out-hop each other, but the lighting was low, the booths were private, and the back bar had an impressive collection of local beer. Brick walls, warped hardwood floors, and a pressed-tin ceiling gave the illusion of history, like the building had been part of some long-forgotten battle. Marcus liked that. It felt honest—nothing polished, nothing fake.
The bar top was scarred from years of elbows and spilled drinks, and the jukebox was stuck on a rotation of 2000s indie rock that made Marcus feel like he was back in college. The Rusty Blade wasn’t the kind of place that did reservations, but Marcus had claimed the booth in the back like it was his by birthright. It offered a clean line of sight to the entrance and just enough distance from the bar to keep the noise manageable. A space to think. Or stew.
Chenny sat across from him, hood up, sleeves pushed to the elbows. His service dog, Charlie, lay curled at his feet, chin resting on one paw, dark eyes scanning the room. A half-finished beer sweated on the table between them. His phone sat screen-up next to the glass, notifications lighting up every few minutes. He hadn’t picked it up once.
Most of the team had already taken over the back half of the bar. Kane and Liam were arguing over darts. Dmitri had wedged himself behind the pool table, claiming it was “science, not luck” that had won him the last round. Even Sven, who usually ghosted straight back to the hotel after games, was nursing a pint and watching ESPN on the overhead screen with his usual impassive stare. The mood was looser now. Not light, not really, but uncoiling.
Marcus’ glass sat untouched in front of him. Club soda, no ice. He wasn’t in the mood for anything that might blur the sharp edge still humming behind his ribs.
Chenny took a slow sip of his beer, then lowered the glass without looking up. “I know it worked. I saw the code run. The tracker is installed and the hacker’s backup server’s toast.” He tapped his finger once, twice, against the condensation on the bottle. “But I still feel like I’ve got a blinking target on my back.”
Marcus studied him, noting the tightness around his mouth, the restless motion of his fingers. “You don’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you covered our asses. You did everything right.”
Chenny let out a slow breath through his nose. Charlie shifted and leaned gently against his leg. Chenny’s hand dropped automatically, fingers weaving into the pit bull’s fur.
“I keep thinking I missed something,” he said. “Like maybe there’s another copy. Or maybe I left a footprint in Reed’s system and now he’s going to reverse-engineer it and nuke my socials or blow up my inbox with clown porn or something.”
Marcus’s lips twitched. “Clown porn?”
“I don’t know what that man’s into.” Chenny finally looked up. “You’ve seen him. He’s the kind of guy who would pay extra for a monthly douchebag subscription.”
“You’re not wrong.”
Chenny shifted in his seat, lowering his voice. “I just don’t like that we don’t know what Reed’s going to do next. And being stuck in limbo while suspended? Not the best combo for someone with an anxiety disorder.”
Marcus gave a single nod, deliberate. “I know.”
Chenny rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t get me wrong.I’m grateful you’re covering the fine. I just... I don’t know, man. I feel off. Like I’m the loose thread someone’s going to tug until the whole sweater unravels.”
Marcus leaned back, arms folded loosely across his chest. “If anything, you’re the thread that kept the whole thing from falling apart.”
Charlie made a soft, low woof under the table, almost like he agreed.
Chenny looked down and gave him a scratch behind the ears. “I think Charlie’s just glad I’m off the ice and not getting punched for a change.”
“You’re a left wing,” Marcus said dryly. “It comes with the job description.”
Before Chenny could reply, the door opened. Marcus felt the change in the air before he turned.
Stephanie walked in, brushing snow from her sleeves, scanning the room like she expected trouble.
She looked tired. Focused. Dangerous in that way she had of making a pencil skirt look like battle armor.
Marcus didn’t move, but something in his chest did.
“She’s here,” he said quietly.
Charlie gave a soft chuff in response, and Chenny sat up a little straighter as she approached.
––––––––
M ARCUS’S brEATH CAUGHT—NOT in a dramatic, rom-com way, but in a body recalibrating to her presence way. Like his system recognized her before his mind did.
She hadn’t seen him yet.
He took that moment to study her, because watching her when she didn’t know he was watching was something he only allowed himself rarely. When she was presenting, when she was spinning gold from chaos in press briefings, when she was tapping her pen against her lip while reading reports she’d never admit he’d written better than the league’s own analysts.
She looked wired. Not jittery. Just alive. Like her blood was still moving at double-speed and she hadn’t found the off switch. She finally spotted him and made a beeline for the booth, cutting through the noise like a signal through static.
She slid into the booth beside him without ceremony. Close enough that her coat brushed his arm. She didn’t speak right away.
Marcus waited.
Finally, she exhaled. “I put the laptop back without anyone noticing.”
Marcus nodded once. Relief moved through his chest like a weighted blanket, grounding him, but he kept his reaction minimal. There were still too many variables.
“You sure?” Chenny asked.
“Yeah, Reed was too busy trying to charm Westfield into thinking he invented analytics.”
Marcus blinked. “Did it work?”
She didn’t answer right away. “Kind of.”
That dropped like a puck to center ice. “What do you mean?”
Stephanie looked down at the table, then back at them. “That slippery snake found a way in. I’m still head of Communications, but Westlake offered him head of Analytics.”
The logic short-circuited for a beat.
Chenny made a sharp sound from across the booth. “So I punch a guy, get sussied, and he gets promoted. Nice.”
Stephanie didn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t see it coming.” She kept her voice steady, but Marcus could see it in the strain around her mouth. She already blames herself.
“I thought we stopped him,” Chenny muttered. “We burned his leverage.”
“We did,” she said. “But he didn’t need the blackmail to climb. He just needed the moment.”
Marcus’s thoughts spun through every angle. They’d neutralized the immediate threat—yes. But Reed had sidestepped, repositioned, taken advantage of the very chaos they’d created. The strategy wasn’t flawed.
The opponent was just better than they’d expected.
“He’s inside now,” Marcus said slowly. “With credentials. Authority.”
“Which means he can manipulate the data from within,” Stephanie said. “And shape narratives to fit.”
Marcus leaned back in the booth, a familiar hollowness blooming in his chest. He’d seen games like this before—ones where you dominated possession, outshot the opponent, did everything right... and still lost because they scored on a fluke.
Charlie stirred beneath the table, sensing Chenny’s rising tension.
“This was supposed to shut him down,” Chenny said. “That was the point. All of it.”
“It did shut down the blackmail,” Stephanie said gently. “It didn’t stop Reed from being who he is.”
Marcus didn’t speak.
Because what he really wanted to say was I should’ve seen this coming. He’d built his reputation on anticipating patterns, modeling behaviors, forecasting outcomes with brutal accuracy.
And somehow, he’d missed this.
Stephanie touched his hand—lightly, just a brush—but it was enough to bring him back.
“We still have the tracker,” she said quietly. “And the virus on the backup server. If he makes a move, we’ll know.”
Marcus nodded, but the calculus had shifted. He didn’t just want to react anymore. He wanted to beat Reed at his own game.
Decisively.
Chenny let out a bitter laugh. “Fuck this. I’m out.” And with that, he turned and with Charlie loping along next to him, strode out the front door into the cold night.
Marcus stared at the table. At the water ring forming around his glass. At nothing, really.
The Rusty Blade’s lights felt too warm. The music too loud. He could hear the muffled sound of Kane yelling “bullseye!” like the world was still turning the way it always had.
But something in Marcus had shifted.
Reed hadn’t won.
But he’d scored. And now Marcus wanted nothing more than to take the puck right back.
***
S TEPHANIE
The air inside The Rusty Blade had shifted.
Stephanie felt it before she saw them—like a drop in barometric pressure, the moment before a storm breaks.
She followed Marcus’s gaze across the room.
Reed.
His entourage included Coach Vicky, Westlake, and two Darby execs in slim-cut suits and forced grins, he entered like a man arriving to accept an award. Perfect posture, smug half-smile, not a hair out of place. The room didn’t go silent, but it tensed around the edges—shoulders tightened, drinks paused midair, conversations momentarily derailed.
Stephanie’s stomach turned, slow and sour.
Marcus clenched his jaw. One hand curled into a fist against the table, the knuckles flexing, then locking tight.
“Don’t,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the music. She reached across the booth, her hand resting on his arm. His bicep was taut under her fingers. “He’s not worth it.”
Marcus didn’t look away. “He thinks he’s won. He thinks we’re going to lose.”
Her grip tightened slightly. “We’re not. He can’t hurt us with his blackmail anymore.”
He was still watching Reed like a tracking algorithm. But he didn’t move. “He can still hurt us.”
Then Reed turned—and made a direct line toward their booth.
No hesitation.
No shame.
Just pure provocation, gift-wrapped in polished shoes and a ten-thousand-dollar smile.
“Marcus,” he drawled, stopping beside the table. “Nice game tonight. Shame about the Chenofski. Though I suppose every team needs a sacrificial lamb.”
Stephanie stiffened beside Marcus. She could feel the shift in him—like a cable pulled too tight. “Dietritch deserved it.”
Reed turned to her, all oily charm. “In the end, it all worked out.” His hand moved—light, barely there—as if to touch her shoulder. She tried not to flinch away. But Marcus saw the slight movement. And that was it.
He shot to his feet.
Stephanie barely had time to blink before his fist connected.
The crack of knuckles on jawbone echoed louder than the jukebox.
Reed staggered back, eyes wide, a hand to his face.
Chaos erupted.
Chairs scraped. Voices shouted. A bottle hit the floor and rolled. Someone—maybe Kane—snarled, “Oh fuck.”
Security swarmed. Westlake’s voice cut through the din, furious and shrill. “Is this your idea of professionalism? Assault in a public venue?”
Reed, already upright, blood at the corner of his lip, pointed with theatrical flair. “I’m pressing charges.”
Marcus hit him again and down he went.
Stephanie stood frozen, her mind whirring like a jammed camera lens. She saw it all, every angle—witnesses, lighting, optics—but none of it mattered. This wasn’t something she could spin.
This wasn’t a misquote or a viral video or a lapse in judgment during an Instagram Live.
This was a fight. In public. On record.
And it was Marcus.
Coach Vicky pushed her way between Reed and Dmitri while Stephanie just gaped like a fish. She took one look at Reed’s bruised mouth, then at Marcus, who stood rooted, breathing hard but not speaking.
“This is outrageous,” Westlake snapped. “These men are animals.”
Vicky didn’t blink. “I call that a consultant who couldn’t keep his hands to himself getting what he asked for.”
Stephanie put a hand to her throat. Vicky noticed. She knew. Stephanie resisted the urge to kick Reed as he staggered to his feet.
“Your player just punched someone in front of a room full of witnesses,” Westlake said.
“Your contractor has been shooting his mouth off for weeks,” she replied coolly. “Marcus got hot. It happens. You want to fire your top defenseman in the middle of a playoff run because some jackass provoked him?”
Stephanie should’ve said something. She should’ve stepped in, soothed things, redirected the narrative. But for the first time in her career, she had no words. She stood there beside Marcus, mute and useless, watching everything unravel in real time.
Westlake didn’t press further, but the look he gave Marcus could’ve sliced diamonds.
“Consider yourself on thin ice, Adeyemi,” he said. “One more outburst, and you’re done.”
He turned and stalked out of the bar.
Reed followed, dabbing at his lip with a linen napkin like he was in a courtroom drama.
Vicky gave them both a long, narrow stare, then turned to Marcus and Stephanie. “Next time, take it outside.”
Then she was gone too.
Just like that.
Stephanie exhaled, shaky and slow. Her hands still trembled, though she couldn’t remember when she’d started shaking.
Marcus turned to her, his expression unreadable. Controlled. But she saw the edges—anger, regret, something deeper and darker underneath.
“I let him bait me,” he said quietly. “I gave him exactly what he wanted.”
She looked at him—really looked—and saw a man who didn’t regret the punch, but regretted what it cost. To his control. To his principles. Potentially to his team.
“No,” she said. Her voice was steadier than she expected. “He wanted this. So when the information he still thinks he has goes live, he’s got more ammunition. He’s got nothing now.”
“He’s got a new job,” Marcus said.
“Maybe not for long if he keeps acting like this. Hockey players are supposed to fight, not executives.”
“He’s going to push again. What happens next time?”
Stephanie didn’t hesitate.
“Next time, we hit back smarter.”
He looked at her. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then he gave a single nod.
“For now,” he said, and there was steel in it.
Not defeat.
Resolve