Page 19

S tephanie

The rink always looked different in the morning—less sharp, a little softer around the edges. The floodlights hadn’t fully brightened yet, leaving the ice tinted gray instead of its usual showtime shine. It was a behind-the-scenes kind of morning. Exactly what they all needed.

Stephanie sat in the bleachers, hands wrapped around a paper cup that had long gone cold. Her scarf was still looped loosely around her neck, coat open. She hadn’t rushed to get dressed properly today. After last night, she was still inside the afterglow—sore in the best ways, hollowed out in the best ways.

She’d woken up tangled in Marcus, his hand still on her hip like he’d anchored himself to her in his sleep.

They hadn’t said much this morning. They didn’t need to.

But when she told him she was going to the arena, he’d just nodded and said, “I’ll meet you on the ice.” Like they were a team. Like they had a plan.

And now she watched him skating backward through a penalty kill drill, calling out adjustments to Dmitri with that sharp focus he carried like a second skin. From up here, he looked relaxed. Confident.

She smiled without meaning to.

A door slammed.

She turned her head toward the sound, instinct prickling just behind her collarbone.

Four uniformed officers entered the rink from the players’ tunnel. For a second, no one reacted. The squeak of blades on ice continued. Then one of the officers held up a photo and spoke, voice raised to carry across the glass.

One of them stepped forward, holding a photo. “We’re looking for Marcus Adeyemi.”

It took a beat for the room to register it. Then everything slowed.

Coach Vicky skated toward them hard and fast, her whistle already around her fingers. “This is a closed practice. You can’t just walk in here—”

“We have a warrant. Assault. We need Mr. Adeyemi to come with us.”

Stephanie stood, legs suddenly heavy. Her breath caught, not in panic, but in calculation. This was bad. This was public. And this was exactly what Reed had wanted.

Kane skated toward Marcus fast, already speaking low and sharp. Dmitri peeled off his circle and joined them. The team was closing ranks.

One of the officers—hand resting on his belt—took a step toward him.

Stephanie moved.

She didn’t run. She walked, coat flaring around her legs as she stepped through the gate at the side of the rink and onto the ice in her flat-soled boots. The cold bit through the leather, but she didn’t slow down.

She raised her voice once she reached the officers.

“That won’t be necessary. Mr. Adeyemi will comply voluntarily. But you’re not cuffing him in front of his teammates, or the arena’s security cameras, unless you want this on TMZ by lunch.”

The officer closest to her looked up, confused.

“I’m Stephanie Ellis. Director of Communications for the Chill. I’ll contact our legal counsel, and the league’s executive office. You can walk him out, but you’ll do it with respect and discretion.”

She turned to Marcus who had approached them during all of this. He nodded. Quiet. Calm. And Stephanie wanted to scream, because he shouldn’t have to carry this weight—especially not when he’d been provoked. But the cameras didn’t care. The public didn’t care.

He didn’t speak, just touched her hand lightly. A signal. I’m okay. I’ll go.

Stephanie’s jaw locked, but she nodded. “Let me handle it.”

“I know you will.”

She turned back to the officers. “Let’s take this off the ice.”

Coach Vicky gave the officers a look like she was memorizing badge numbers.

The police led Marcus off the ice. As Marcus stepped off with the officers, the locker room door slammed shut behind them. The sound echoed across the rink like a slap. Stephanie didn’t watch him go. She pulled out her phone, thumb already moving. Time to do her real job. The team needed a narrative. And she was going to give them one.

Reed must have realized the blackmail was gone. And like a cornered animal, he lashed out. It wasn’t about the punch anymore. This was control. Optics. Punishment. Stephanie’s hand clenched around her phone. He wanted her rattled. Isolated. Scrambling. She wasn’t going to give him that.

She turned on her heel and walked off the ice, pulling up her contact list. Legal first. Then Westfield. Then the league. Reed wanted a fight? He’d just picked the wrong woman to back into a corner.

Stephanie didn’t return to her office. She went to Chesapeake Coffee She needed a coffee and a cinnamon roll: stat! She ordered up her usual, dropped her laptop bag, and started typing.

The press release needed to go out within the hour. Not a defensive tone—that would read as guilt. Just the facts: Marcus Adeyemi, cooperating with authorities regarding an incident that occurred off-hours, unrelated to official team events. The organization supports him and will not comment further while the situation is under review.

Crisp. Tight. Respectful. It bought them breathing room.

She forwarded it to legal, the team owner’s liaison, and the league’s comms office. She flagged it urgent, then picked up her phone and scrolled for Lauren Thompson’s number.

Jax’s wife answered on the second ring.

“Hey,” Stephanie said. “Do you have any dogs not currently recovering from surgery?”

A pause. Then a warm laugh. “You need fluff shots, don’t you?”

“I need photo ops. Community support. Happy children and licking faces.”

“I’ve got Can you rouse some volunteers and get them out in the city by two? Sidewalk meet-and-greet outside The Bean, maybe a swing by the Green. All of them need to be wearing Chill merch. I’ll send a photog.”

“You got it.”

Stephanie ended the call and immediately opened a text thread with Phoebe:

Can you suit up as Chilly today? I need you to crash a school visit and a dog park. Bonus if you hug a crossing guard.

Phoebe’s response came back instantly: You got it.

Then, Stephanie tapped open a new thread and sent this out to Oliver:

I know you’re probably pissed at me, but we need extra paws and people for the dog squad.

You and Charlie up for it?

This one took a little longer to come through. When it did, the answer was short: We’re in.

Chenny didn’t owe her this. After everything with the blackmail, after being suspended, after almost getting swept into a mess not of his making—he still said yes.

She grabbed her laptop and opened a new social content queue.

Headline: “When Things Get Ruff, the Chill Show Up.”

Underneath: a photo of Charlie the pit bull in a Chill jersey, high-fiving a preschooler.

Let Reed play his games in the boardroom.

Stephanie would win in the streets.

***

H ER OFFICE WAS QUIET . Too quiet.

The moment she stepped inside, Stephanie felt it—like a shift in air pressure. Her boots clicked once on the floor before she saw him.

Reed.

He was sitting in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled like a cartoon villain who thought charm could substitute for legitimacy.

“I was wondering when you’d show,” he said without looking up. “Busy day, I assume.”

Stephanie didn’t answer. She kept her bag on her shoulder and her hand in her coat pocket, thumb hovering over the voice memo button on her phone.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she said, voice flat.

He finally looked up. Smiling. Always smiling.

“You really think this ends with you coming out on top?”

“If that’s a threat, you can walk it right out the door.”

He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.

“It’s a reality check. You overplayed your hand, sweetheart. You went snooping where you shouldn’t have. You thought you could control me.”

“You blackmailed me and Marcus using stolen data that you hacked from the Chill,” she said. “You’re lucky I haven’t reported you to Darby and Darby....”

He laughed. Actually laughed. “Please. You think anyone’s going to believe you? You haven’t any proof and you’ve got a reputation for... let’s call it influencing narratives. Who’s been sleeping with the defenseman at the center of the drama? You’re tainted goods, Stephanie. Damaged from Boston. And like Boston, I’ll see you gone.”

“You don’t scare me.”

“You should be scared.”

He stood. Too fast. He moved to block her exit.

She stepped back.

His voice dropped, lower now. “You know what happens when women like you make trouble? You don’t get promoted. You don’t get quiet jobs somewhere else. You disappear.”

Stephanie didn’t blink. “You done?”

Reed stepped closer. One hand raised—not to hit her, but to make her flinch.

She didn’t.

Because she wasn’t looking at him anymore.

She was looking behind him at the figure in the doorway.

Coach Vicky.

“Get your ass out of here, Reed,” Vicky said, contempt dripping off each word.

Reed froze. “This doesn’t concern you, Coach.”

“You just threatened my PR director. In her office. While standing between her and the door.” Vicky stepped inside and closed the distance in three strides. “That concerns me.”

Reed sneered. “You’re really going to get physical? Cute.”

“I was an enforcer on the Olympic team. You want to find out what cute gets you?”

“The woman’s team,” he snorted. He moved. Not much—just a step toward Stephanie again, hand still raised.

And Vicky moved faster.

She grabbed his wrist, pivoted, and slammed him against the filing cabinet with a sound like thunder. Her foot braced behind his and swept him down hard, landing him flat on his back.

Reed wheezed. “You’re insane.”

“No,” Vicky said. “I’m done watching you play games in our house.”

Stephanie pulled out her phone and tapped the voice recording app. The file was still going. She stopped it. Saved it. Backed it up twice.

Then she called security.

“I’ll get this piece of shit out of your office,” Vicky said, hauling him up like a bag of trash.

“And I’ll tell Westfield I’m filing a formal complaint. With this attached audio.” She waggled the device at them as Reed cursed and struggled.

Vicky had no problem perp walking him out the door.

“You’re done,” Stephanie said as they left. “Not just here. Everywhere.”

Reed didn’t answer. But his eyes—wide now, darting—told her the truth:

He finally realized he’d lost.

***

T HE ARENA WAS MOSTLY quiet by the time Marcus returned.

Practice had long since ended. The team had cleared out. Even the interns were gone—sent home early under the vague umbrella of “external operations complications,” which she’d muttered just loud enough for Westfield to hear.

She sat in the hallway, legs stretched out, back against the wall. Her phone was in her lap, still recording voice notes. A half-empty water bottle sat beside her, untouched since the Vicky-Reed takedown. Her office seemed too claustrophobic.

She heard the footsteps first.

Then his voice.

“I was wondering if you were still here.”

Stephanie looked up.

Marcus stood at the end of the corridor, hands in his pockets, bag slung over one shoulder. There was a pause before he moved toward her, like he wasn’t sure if he had permission.

She patted the ground next to her.

He dropped down beside her with a groan, back hitting the wall hard. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was just... full.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice quieter than she meant it to be.

He nodded. “Got released after Vicky filed charges. No one wanted to escalate it after that.”

“She body-slammed him.”

He glanced sideways. “You serious?”

“Filed it like a penalty. Proper form and everything.”

A beat.

Then Marcus laughed. Not much. But enough that it broke something loose in her chest.

Stephanie turned to him, hands loose in her lap. “I recorded him. The whole thing. I handed it off to legal and backed it up to three drives.”

“You’re incredible.”

“No. I’m exhausted. And slightly feral at this point.”

Marcus threw his arm around her shoulders and held her close to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder. Everything started to ease inside of her.

“I saw your post about Chenny and Charlie at the dog park,” he said. “Dmitri said he almost cried.”

“I’m aiming for emotional whiplash,” she said. “Make everyone feel so many things they forget the headlines.”

He gave her squeeze. “It’s working.”

“If Vicky hadn’t come in...”

“You would have kicked him in the balls,” Marcus said. “And then I would’ve killed him and be really in trouble.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” she said.

“He’s toast either way. There’s no way Darby and Darby will bring someone like him on.”

“I hope not.”

“Not going to happen. Especially if Vicky has a say in it.”

“I wouldn’t mess with her.”

“You and me, both.” He nudged her. “I love you.”

She nodded once, throat tight. “I love you too.”