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M arcus

The league offices gleamed with too much glass and not enough substance. Marcus sat in an overdesigned chair that looked better than it felt, waiting for Westfield to finish his closed-door meeting with the league disciplinary committee. His tie felt tight against his throat even though he'd loosened it ten minutes ago.

Three hours of deliberation over a single punch thrown at a man who had blackmailed him, threatened his career, and then cornered Stephanie in her office.

Marcus checked his watch. Again.

The door finally opened, and Westfield emerged with Commissioner Davis right behind him. Their faces gave nothing away.

"Mr. Adeyemi," the commissioner said, extending his hand. "Thank you for your patience."

Marcus stood and shook it firmly, saying nothing. The less he spoke, the better at this point.

"In light of the evidence presented by Coach Vicky and Ms. Ellis, along with character testimonials from your teammates, we've decided not to pursue supplemental discipline."

Marcus exhaled slowly. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me. Thank your PR director. Her recording was illuminating." The commissioner's mouth tightened. "We don't condone physical altercations, but context matters. Reed's actions were unacceptable."

Westfield looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Reed has been terminated from his consulting position. Darby and Darby has also rescinded their offer for the Analytics director role."

"Good," Marcus said, not bothering to hide his satisfaction.

Commissioner Davis nodded once. "Be smarter next time, Adeyemi. Take it out of the bar at least."

"Yes, sir."

The commissioner left them standing in the hallway. Westfield turned to Marcus, his expression softening.

"For what it's worth, I should have listened when you both raised concerns. I was too focused on the acquisition."

"It's done now."

"Not quite," Westfield said. "Darby and Darby still wants to develop our analytics program. They were impressed with your insights, despite everything. They'd like you to consult during the off-season, if you're interested."

Marcus blinked. "I'd have to think about it."

"Of course." Westfield handed him a business card. "No rush. For now, focus on hockey. We need you on the ice, not in hearings."

As Westfield walked away, Marcus pulled out his phone and texted Stephanie:

No suspension. No fine. Meeting you at your place in an hour?

Her response came immediately: Already here. Door's unlocked.

***

M ARCUS PAUSED OUTSIDE Stephanie's apartment door, a paper bag from Malone's Deli in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other. Not ideal for nutrition plans, but some celebrations required exceptions.

Inside, he heard music playing softly—one of those indie bands she liked. He pushed the door open.

Stephanie was curled on her couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, hair still damp from a shower. She looked up at him, eyes soft with exhaustion but bright with something else.

"You brought food," she said, straightening.

"Sandwiches from Malone's. And this—" he held up the champagne, "—is for after we eat."

"Come here," she said, patting the cushion next to her.

He dropped his bag by the door and joined her on the couch, setting their dinner on the coffee table. Before he could reach for the food, she leaned over and kissed him—slow and deliberate.

"What was that for?" he asked when she pulled away.

"For not getting suspended." Another kiss. "For coming back here instead of hiding out." A third. "For being you."

Marcus cupped her face in his hands. "I should punch people more often."

She smacked his arm. "Don't even joke. This week has taken ten years off my life."

"Reed's gone. For good. League made sure of it."

"I know. Westfield called me right after your meeting." She took the sandwich he offered. "Did he tell you about the consulting?"

"Yeah. I said I'd think about it."

Stephanie unwrapped her sandwich. "And?"

"And I don't know. Analytics was always something I did because it helped me understand the game better. Not sure I want to turn it into a second job."

She nodded, taking a bite. "Makes sense."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, sitting close enough that their shoulders touched. Outside, snow had started falling again, coating Toronto in a fresh layer of white. It was almost too perfect—the kind of scene that belonged in someone else's life.

"So what now?" Marcus asked finally.

Stephanie tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

"Us. This. Everything."

"Well," she said, setting down her sandwich, "professionally speaking, we need to rebuild some trust with the ownership group. I've got a whole PR strategy—"

"I'm not asking about PR strategies."

She smiled. "I know."

"We've been in crisis mode since the day we met. First the ownership change, then the blackmail, now Reed's final meltdown." Marcus shifted to face her. "What happens when there's no crisis? When it's just us?"

Stephanie reached for his hand, tracing a pattern across his palm with her thumb. "Are you asking if I only want drama in my life?"

"I'm asking if we work without it."

She laughed softly. "Marcus, do you know what I want more than anything right now?"

"What?"

"Boring. I want weeks of boring. Months of it. I want predictable mornings and routine practices and scheduled press conferences that go exactly according to plan."

"Sounds terrible," he joked.

"It sounds like heaven." She squeezed his hand. "And I want it with you."

Marcus pulled her closer. "I can do boring."

"Can you?" She raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Analytics who watches game film until two in the morning, and spends road trips plotting defensive zone coverage?"

"That's not dramatic. That's focused."

"It's intensely you. And I love it."

Marcus felt like he could fly. How did he get so lucky? "I've been looking at real estate listings."

The abrupt change made her blink. "What?"

"My lease is up in two months. I thought instead of renewing, maybe I'd buy something. Something with space. Better security. A home office for late night hockey analysis. Maybe room for a dog."

"A dog, huh?"

"Charlie makes a pretty good case for himself."

Stephanie's eyes narrowed. "Marcus Adeyemi, are you asking me to move in with you?"

"Not yet," he said. "But I'm asking if you'd help me find a place I could see us in. Eventually."

"Eventually," she repeated, a smile tugging at her lips.

"I've been running the statistics. Teams with stable home environments show a 6% increase in—"

She kissed him to shut him up. He let her.

When she pulled back, she was full-on grinning. "You had me at real estate listings."

"Really? That was the romantic part for you?"

"Planning a future with spreadsheets and home viewings? That's peak romance in Marcus language."

He laughed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. "I'm serious though. Statistically speaking, you're my best match."

"How romantic," she teased, but her eyes were warm.

"It's more than numbers," he said, voice dropping lower. "It's knowing that no matter what happens—Reed, blackmail, suspensions, whatever comes next—you're the person I want beside me. The only person."

She pressed her forehead against his. "I'd say same, but that would undersell it."

"Try anyway."

Stephanie took a deep breath. "After Boston, I built walls. Made it all about the job. But you came along with your analytical mind and your stubbornness and your bizarre way of making numbers into magic."

"Now you sound like Dmitri."

"And you saw through all of it. You didn't just see the PR director. You saw me." She tucked herself closer against him. "I never thought I'd find safe and exciting in the same person. But here you are."

Marcus kissed her temple, the bridge of her nose, the corner of her mouth. "Here I am. Here we are."

She smiled against his lips. "No crisis. Just us."

"Us," he agreed, pulling her fully into his arms. "That's the only statistic that matters."