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M arcus

Marcus's morning routine never varied: 5:30 AM alarm, fifteen minutes of stretching, protein shake, twenty minutes reviewing game footage from the night before, then a five-mile run. The consistency had kept him in the league for three seasons, backed by his personal stats.

This morning, however, his mind kept drifting from the familiar New Haven streets to a pair of bourbon-colored eyes and a scent of perfume he hadn't yet pinned down.

He pushed harder, cranking up his pace until his lungs burned and his legs screamed. Physical pain had always cleared his head better than thinking.

By the time he returned to his apartment—a one-bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor—his watch showed he'd shaved nearly two minutes off his average time. At least something was going right.

His phone buzzed with a team notification as he stepped out of the shower. He checked it immediately, water still dripping down his back.

Emergency team meeting. 9:30 AM. Mandatory attendance.

Marcus frowned. Unexpected meetings threw off pre-game preparation and rarely brought good news. His mind cycled through the possibilities: trades, coaching changes, ownership issues? None made sense given their current place in the standings.

He dressed quickly—dark jeans and a navy button-down that Kane's girlfriend had once told him "worked with his complexion," whatever that meant. Marcus didn't care about fashion, but he'd learned that certain clothing choices kept teammates from making stupid comments, letting him focus on the game.

The traffic suggested he'd hit the facility eleven minutes early. Perfect timing for a pre-meeting coffee.

The team's practice facility café was packed for a morning after a game. Marcus scanned the room, instinctively reading the plays developing off the ice. Kane and Liam huddled in a corner table, locked in serious conversation. Rookies Ethan and the younger players clustered nervously by the windows. Chenny and Mateo bent over Chenny's laptop, probably checking his latest vlog stats.

And there, at the counter waiting for coffee, was Stephanie Ellis.

She hadn't spotted him yet. Her dark hair was pulled back in a low, sleek ponytail today—different from her usual style. She wore a tailored cream blazer over a simple black dress, standing tall even at this early hour. As she reached for her coffee, he noticed the tension in her shoulders.

Something was wrong. Her body language was clear as a defenseman telegraphing a hip check.

"Morning, Spreadsheets," a voice called, breaking his focus.

Coach Vicky approached, coffee in hand. She wore her game-day blazer—strange for a practice day. Another warning sign.

"Morning, Coach. Any hints about this emergency meeting?"

Vicky's expression stayed neutral, but Marcus caught the tightening around her eyes. "Management will explain everything. Just keep your stick on the ice."

She moved on before he could dig deeper, stopping to check in with Kane. Marcus headed for the coffee counter, which meant crossing into Stephanie's territory.

"Ellis," he acknowledged, stepping up beside her.

She turned, and for a split second, her PR mask slipped—showing what looked like relief before her features reset to their professional default.

"You're early," she said, stirring her coffee.

"Always am. You look worried."

"And you look like you've already skated a double shift." Her eyes tracked over him, lingering a beat longer than strictly professional. "Good thing you're warmed up. It's going to be a long day."

Her cryptic answer only confirmed his suspicion. "How bad?"

Stephanie glanced around, then stepped closer. That perfume hit him again—notes of vanilla and sandalwood, expensive but understated.

"Not here," she murmured. "But when we get to the conference room, sit next to me."

His eyebrows shot up. "Why?"

"Because for once, Spreadsheets, we're going to need to play on the same line."

Before he could respond, she was gone, coffee in hand, already cutting off Mateo who looked ready to blast something on social media.

Marcus's coffee arrived, and he added one teaspoon of sugar—just enough kick without the crash, according to his testing. His mind ran probabilities based on this new intel from Stephanie. As he stirred, his eyes tracked the clean line of her neck as she spoke to Mateo, the way her hands moved when making a point.

A united front?

Stephanie wanting to team up with him was like Crosby asking to practice with the Capitals—completely unnatural and a definite sign of trouble ahead.

***

T HE CONFERENCE ROOM went silent as owner Richard Montgomery walked in, flanked by his son Tyler and two suits Marcus didn't recognize. Montgomery rarely showed at team meetings, preferring to watch from the owner's box and let his son handle the day-to-day.

Marcus had followed Stephanie's surprising request, taking the chair beside her at the middle of the long table. Their proximity felt like crossing center ice into enemy territory. Under the table, her knee almost touched his. He became hyper-aware of the small gap between them, the subtle shift in her breathing when their arms nearly brushed as she arranged her notebook.

"Thank you all for coming on short notice," Montgomery began, his voice filling the room. "I'll get straight to the point. As of nine o'clock this morning, the ownership of the Charm City Chill is in transition."

The room erupted in whispers. Marcus kept still, his game face locked in despite the bombshell. In his experience, new ownership meant new coaches, new systems, and roster overhauls. Bad news for a team mid season.

Stephanie's hand moved under the table, hovering near his arm but not touching. A warning sign, like a goalie tapping the post before a big penalty kill. The nearness sent a jolt through him, scrambling his focus momentarily.

"Darby they cared about extractable value.

Stephanie reapplied her lipstick with steady hands despite her internal turmoil. Never let them see you sweat—the first rule her mentor had taught her in crisis management. She straightened her blazer, checked her ponytail, and took one deep, centering breath.

Time to strategize with the enemy. The enemy with shoulders broad enough to fill out a suit jacket to perfection. The enemy whose dark eyes behind those reading glasses had been haunting her thoughts for longer than she cared to admit.

Conference room B was smaller and more private than the main meeting space. When she entered, Marcus was already there, two coffee cups from her favorite local roaster on the table. She paused, caught off guard by the thoughtful gesture.

"You went to Chesapeake Coffee?"

He shrugged, pushing one cup toward her side of the table. "You get their medium roast with room for cream practically every game day. Hard not to notice."

She should have found it creepy that he'd tracked her coffee habits. Instead, she felt an unwelcome flutter low in her belly. "You've been charting my coffee preferences? That's not stalker-ish at all."

"I pick up on patterns." He said it matter-of-factly, without apology. "Same way I read plays on the ice."

"What else have you... noticed about me?" she asked before she could stop herself, a dangerous edge to her voice.

His eyes met hers, something shifting in their dark depths. "That'd be crossing the blue line."

The implication sent heat crawling up her neck. Stephanie took the seat across from him, adding cream to her coffee. "Well, thanks for the caffeine. I needed this after that ambush."

For a moment, they sat in tense silence, both processing the morning's bombshell.

"You knew this was coming," Marcus finally said. Not a question, an observation.

"I heard whispers." She took a careful sip of her coffee. "But the timeline accelerated. I expected at least another month before an announcement."

"How bad is it going to be?"

Stephanie appreciated that he didn't waste time with platitudes. "Darby & Darby gutted the California Blades' PR department last year. Replaced the entire communications team with twentysomethings tracking social algorithms. Half the staff gone, traditional media relationships torched."

"I get using numbers, but that's a garbage approach," he said, surprising her.

"Wait—are you telling me my favorite stat-man doesn't approve of their methods?" She raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd be thrilled that the analytics revolution is finally here."

Marcus frowned. "Analytics should make the team better, not replace it. What they're describing sounds more like strip-mining than player development."

"Exactly." She leaned forward. "They're not interested in your research to make better hockey players, Marcus. They want to extract value. Players become assets, fans become data points, and everything—including your carefully constructed systems—gets twisted to serve their bottom line."

His expression darkened. "What's your read on why they're pushing me up?"

Direct as always. Stephanie respected that about him, even when it drove her crazy.

"On the surface, they're giving you the keys to the kingdom. But read between the lines—they don't care about your hockey insights. They want your system. Once they extract that, add it to their algorithm..." She let the implication hang.

Marcus studied her, his dark eyes intense behind his glasses. "You really believe in what you do."

"Of course I do. Don't you?"

"Yeah. But I believe in it because it works on the ice." He tilted his head slightly. "You believe in it because of what it means to people."

"The human connection IS the point," she countered. "Hockey isn't just about stats, Marcus. It's about the kid who falls in love with the game watching Kane score a clutch goal. It's about the community that rallies around this team when New Haven needs something to cheer for. It's about—"

"Hope," he finished unexpectedly. "Long shots becoming winners. I get it."

Stephanie stared at him, momentarily speechless. "That's... actually a perfect way to put it."

A hint of a smile touched his lips, transforming his usually serious face. She'd seen him smile maybe three times in the year they'd worked together, and each time it hit her with unexpected force.

"I see what you do. I just come at it from a different angle."

The moment stretched between them, something shifting in their usual dynamic. She cleared her throat, suddenly aware of how intensely they were staring at each other.

"So where does that leave us?"

"We've got three plays." Marcus set down his coffee. "One, we fight each other for influence with the new ownership—which ends with both of us getting benched."

That earned a reluctant smile from her. "Sounds about right."

"Two, we each do our own thing, ignore what they want—resulting in one or both of us getting traded within six months."

"Also not ideal," she agreed.

"Three, we run a set play together that keeps your storytelling while backing it with my numbers." He met her eyes directly. "Much better odds than options one or two."

Stephanie considered him thoughtfully. "Are you proposing we work together?"

"I'm proposing we join lines since we're both about to get checked into the boards."

"Wow, you really know how to sweet-talk a girl," she deadpanned.

To her surprise, a genuine smile broke through his usual reserve. "Sweet-talking wouldn't work on someone with your bullshit detector."

"Was that... a compliment buried in an insult wrapped in hockey-speak?"

"Just calling the play as I see it," he said, but the smile lingered. "So, do we have an agreement?"

Stephanie extended her hand across the table. "Strategic alliance it is, Spreadsheets."

His hand enveloped hers, strong and calloused from years of hockey sticks and workouts. The contact lasted longer than strictly necessary, his thumb briefly brushing over her wrist where her pulse jumped traitorously. Heat radiated up her arm at the contact.

"First order of business," she said, withdrawing her hand and reaching for her tablet, hoping he hadn't noticed the flush in her cheeks, "damage control with the team. The players are spooked."

Marcus nodded. "Kane was already texting agents during the meeting. Chenny looks like he did before Game 7 last season."

"You track anxiety signs?"

"I track everything that affects the score." He said it so matter-of-factly that Stephanie couldn't even find it in herself to be properly outraged.

"We need to get ahead of the rumor mill," she continued. "Perhaps a team dinner? Something off-site, casual, where they can ask questions without the new ownership hovering."

"Neutral ice makes everyone skate freer," Marcus agreed. "Kane's place would work best. The boys already treat it like the locker room."

Stephanie typed notes. "I'll talk to Allison. The captain's girlfriend typically hosts team gatherings."

"I'll pull together dirt on Darby & Darby's previous moves. Guys will want real talk, not just PR lines."

She glanced up, a retort about the value of "PR lines" on her lips, but stopped when she saw his expression. He wasn't dismissing her approach—he was complementing it with his own.

Maybe this alliance wasn't doomed after all. Maybe there was something between them beyond professional friction and reluctant attraction.

"One more thing," Marcus said, his tone shifting slightly. "Westfield specifically mentioned player development tracking I've only shared with Coach Vicky and Kane. Nobody else should have those numbers."

Stephanie frowned. "You think someone's been in your system?"

"I know they have. And given Westfield's knowledge of my approach, they've been watching my playbook for months."

The implications hung in the air between them. If Darby & Darby had been accessing Marcus's work without authorization, what else might they know?

"That's..." She searched for the right word.

"A major penalty," he supplied. "And it couldn't happen without inside help."

Their eyes met, mutual understanding passing between them. The ownership change wasn't just about reorganization—there were deeper, darker currents at play. Stephanie's gaze dropped briefly to his mouth, a dangerous thought crossing her mind about how those firm lips might feel against hers. She blamed the adrenaline of crisis mode, not the late-night wine fantasies she'd never admit to.

Stephanie's crisis management instincts kicked in. "This stays between us for now. We gather information before making any moves."

Marcus nodded, his expression serious. "Agreed. Though I should note that keeping secrets in a locker room never—"

"Don't," she interrupted, holding up a hand. "Some odds I'd rather not know."

For once, he didn't argue.

As they gathered their things to leave, a text notification chimed on both their phones simultaneously. Team group chat.

Kane: Party at my place tonight. Mandatory attendance. Bring booze and zero management types. Need to talk.

Stephanie met Marcus's eyes over their phones. "That was fast."

"Kane's got captain instincts for a reason," Marcus said, something like respect in his voice. "He knew we'd need this."

"So, see you tonight then? For our strategic alliance debut?"

He nodded, adjusting his glasses in that way she'd come to recognize as his processing gesture. "I'll bring the numbers. You bring the story."

"Dream team," she said dryly.

But as they parted ways in the corridor, Stephanie couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted between them. For better or worse, Marcus was now her ally in the corporate storm brewing around them.

And she had absolutely no data to predict where that might lead. Or why, when he'd looked at her a certain way, her professional concerns had momentarily taken a backseat to wondering what those strong hands would feel like on her body instead of a hockey stick.