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S tephanie

Stephanie woke before her alarm. She always did when something was wrong.

The text from Preston Reed blazed in her mind. She'd deleted it immediately after returning from Kane's party, but the words had already seared themselves into her consciousness.

Old friends of mine. Mentioned you're causing trouble again.

She flung back the covers and walked to the kitchen of her one-bedroom apartment. The space was smaller than what she could afford on her PR director's salary, but its security features were top-notch, and the doorman knew never to let anyone up without her explicit permission. Safety measures she'd implemented after Boston.

She started the coffee maker—programmable, but she'd beaten it this morning—and leaned against the counter, letting the familiar smells and sounds ground her. The apartment was decorated in shades of blue and gray, with carefully arranged bookshelves and strategically placed photos that told a curated story of professional success.

What the décor didn't show: the three restraining order documents in her desk drawer, the weekly therapy sessions she still maintained, the late-night panic attacks that had finally stopped six months ago. And now, with one text message, the pressure had returned to her chest.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Chenny.

Morning Media Witch. That interview clip with Westfield just dropped. Feels...off. Should I address on my vlog? Charlie's giving me his "proceed with caution" face, but you know how impatient my followers get.

Stephanie smiled despite her stress. Charlie was Chenny's gentle pit bull mix, a certified service dog who had become an unexpected fixture at home games over the past three months. The sweet-natured dog had not only helped Chenny manage his anxiety attacks—which had once been severe enough to bench him before crucial games—but had also become the unofficial team mascot and the face of their shelter partnership program. The PR benefits alone had been substantial, but seeing the genuine difference Charlie made for Chenny was worth far more than the positive press.

Her PR instincts kicked in, shoving aside her personal anxiousness. Team first, always.

Send me the link. DO NOT comment until we talk. Give Charlie an extra treat for his good judgment.

Chenny was the team's unofficial social media presence, his vlog and channel followed by thousands of hockey fans. Normally an asset, but in the middle of an ownership transition, a potential liability. If there was one thing Stephanie had learned in her years of sports PR, it was that passionate players with large platforms required careful handling—though Charlie's calming presence had made Chenny considerably easier to work with lately.

She found the interview clip—a brief segment where Westfield discussed his vision for "restructuring" the Chill's community presence to "maximize impact through data-driven engagement." Corporate speak that immediately set off alarm bells. The Chill's community programs were beloved in New Haven—from the youth hockey initiatives in underserved neighborhoods to the monthly hospital visits. Charlie's appearances with Chenny at the children's hospital had become particularly popular, his gentle temperament perfect for young patients who needed comfort.

"Not everything needs a fucking spreadsheet," she muttered, taking a long sip of coffee. The Chill's community work wasn't about metrics or ROI—it was about real human connections in a city that had embraced this team as its own. She'd seen the immeasurable impact firsthand when a shy child with autism had finally spoken after meeting Charlie, asking Chenny if they could play fetch.

She texted Chenny back.

Absolutely NO commentary. We're gathering more information. Team meeting this morning, remember? Bring Charlie—his presence tends to keep everyone calmer. We're going to need it.

The reminder was probably unnecessary. After Kane's gathering last night, Coach Vicky had called an official team meeting before practice. No management, no ownership, just the core group to align their approach.

Stephanie headed to the shower, mentally outlining talking points. Under the hot water, she confronted the reality she'd been avoiding since last night: Preston Reed's connection to Darby & Darby put her in immediate jeopardy. Not just her job—her carefully reconstructed reputation.

Three years ago, when she'd refused Reed's advances and then reported his behavior, he'd systematically dismantled her credibility. Called her emotional, unreliable, a liability to the organization. Classic playbook. But with a twist—he'd used the team's analytics to "prove" her PR strategies were ineffective, cherry-picking data to create a narrative that she was underperforming.

By the time she'd escaped to New Haven, the whispers had followed her. Difficult to work with. Emotional. Anti-innovation. Only Coach Vicky—who'd faced her own battles as the first female head coach in the league—had been willing to take a chance on her.

Stephanie stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, staring at her reflection in the steamy mirror. Three years of rebuilding. Three years of proving herself. Three years of carefully calculated self-protection.

She would not let Reed destroy her again.

Which meant she needed allies. And unexpectedly, Marcus had become her most likely candidate.

The thought of him sent a complicated rush of heat through her body. Last night had revealed sides of him she'd never seen—vulnerability, empathy, even a surprising sense of humor beneath that analytical exterior. The weight of his jacket around her shoulders had felt like more than just practical consideration. And those shoulders—broad and strong from years of shutting down opposing forwards—had been distractingly visible beneath his fitted shirt.

"Don't romanticize basic decency," she told her reflection sternly. "He's an ally of convenience, nothing more."

But as she dressed in a charcoal pencil skirt and burgundy blouse—battle armor for the day ahead—her mind kept returning to the way his eyes had darkened when he spoke about his father, the gentle way he'd offered his jacket, the unexpected revelation that he valued context over pure data.

Marcus was a puzzle with more pieces than she'd initially thought. And Stephanie had always been drawn to solving complex puzzles, especially when they came wrapped in 6'2" of solid hockey muscle.

Her phone rang as she was applying makeup. Allison's name lit up the screen.

"Morning," Stephanie answered, tucking the phone between ear and shoulder as she applied mascara.

"Tell me you're not already in crisis management mode," Allison said, amusement in her voice. Kane's wife had become one of Stephanie's few genuine friends—one of the rare people who saw behind the PR director facade.

"Do you know me at all?" Stephanie replied dryly.

"I know you well enough to see what was happening with you and a certain dark-eyed defenseman on my deck last night."

Stephanie nearly jabbed herself with the mascara wand. "Nothing was happening."

"Mmhmm. That's why you were wearing his jacket for an hour, looking like you were having an actual human conversation instead of your usual professional sparring."

"It was cold. He was being polite." Stephanie set down the makeup, switching to speaker phone to finish her hair. "And we were discussing strategic approaches to the ownership transition."

"Strategic approaches," Allison echoed skeptically. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"You've been spending too much time with Kane. His terrible sense of humor is contagious."

Allison laughed. "Speaking of Kane, he's the one who sent me on this reconnaissance mission. The guys have a betting pool about you two."

"I heard them last night, but I didn’t think they were serious," Stephanie sighed, arranging her hair.

“You should know better than that by now.”

"Tell them to put their money toward something productive, like retirement planning."

"Avoidance noted," Allison said. "But seriously, I haven't seen you that relaxed in awhile. It was nice."

The simple observation hit harder than Stephanie expected. Had she really become so guarded that a normal conversation registered as noteworthy to her friends?

"We've established a professional alliance," she said, aiming for casual but hearing the defensiveness in her voice. "That's all."

"If you say so." Allison's tone said she wasn't buying it.

"Nope. Not going there," she said. Romantic entanglements were messy, unpredictable, and professionally dangerous—three things she absolutely couldn't afford right now.

Especially not with a colleague whose direct approach threatened to blast through the careful walls she'd built around her past. Even if that colleague did have shoulders that filled out a suit jacket in ways that occasionally distracted her during team meetings.

Grabbing her purse and keys, Stephanie headed for the door, shifting into full professional mode. Today was about survival—securing her position, protecting the team, and managing whatever curveballs Darby & Darby might throw.

Marcus and his unexpected appeal would have to wait.

***

T HE LOCKER ROOM FELL silent as Stephanie entered alongside Coach Vicky. These pre-practice meetings typically didn't include the PR director, but the ownership transition had rewritten the usual rules.

"Morning," Coach Vicky said briskly, surveying the assembled players. Everyone was present, from Kane in his usual corner stall to rookies trying to look inconspicuous along the far wall. "Let's get to it. We've all had time to process the announcement."

Stephanie's eyes automatically sought out Marcus. He sat slightly apart, already in his base layer workout gear, the thin fabric stretched across his chest, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed something on his tablet. A fresh bruise was visible on his forearm—likely from blocking a shot in yesterday's practice. As if sensing her gaze, he looked up, giving her a slight nod of acknowledgment.

Was that a coffee cup from Chesapeake Coffee on the bench beside him?

"Before we hit the ice," Coach continued, "we need to align on approach. Stephanie is here because she's going to help us navigate the media side of this transition. Whatever happens upstairs, what matters is what happens on this ice and in this room."

Stephanie stepped forward. "You've all seen Westfield talking about 'restructuring' our community programs. I've already reached out to clarify what he means, but in the meantime, stick to our established talking points if asked."

She pulled up the document on her tablet, the familiar routine of PR direction steadying her. This was her element—crafting narratives, protecting her people, controlling what could be controlled.

"For media: We welcome fresh perspectives but remain committed to our New Haven community. For fans: Nothing changes in our dedication to this city. For community partners: All existing programs continue as planned." She glanced around the room. "Questions?"

"What's his angle?" Kane asked, voicing what everyone was thinking. "Why target the community programs right out of the gate?"

Before Stephanie could respond, Marcus spoke up from his corner.

"They're measuring ROI," he said, setting aside his tablet. "Community programs have the lowest return in traditional analytics models because the benefits are long-term and often qualitative rather than quantitative."

All eyes turned to him, including Stephanie's. This was exactly the kind of cold, numbers-driven approach she expected from him—and exactly what she feared from Darby & Darby.

But Marcus wasn't finished.

"The models are wrong," he continued, surprising her. "They fail to account for brand loyalty development, community goodwill as crisis insurance, and the performance boost from players' emotional connection to their community."

He glanced at Stephanie, something like solidarity in his eyes. "It's bad analytics, not just bad PR."

The room fell silent as players processed this unexpected alliance. Stephanie felt a rush of something dangerously close to attraction—seeing him defend what she cared about hit her harder than she'd expected.

"Spreadsheets's got a point," Jax spoke up. "Those kids at the New Haven Youth Center don't show up in the stats, but they're why I give an extra 10% on the penalty kill."

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room. Coach Vicky nodded approvingly.

"That's exactly the perspective we need. Stephanie, Marcus—can you two put together something that shows the ownership the full picture? Numbers and narrative together?"

"Already in progress," Stephanie confirmed, exchanging a quick glance with Marcus. "We'll have preliminary findings by tomorrow."

"Good." Coach checked her watch. "Ice in fifteen. You all know what's at stake for this road trip."

As the meeting broke up, players began their pre-practice routines. Stephanie gathered her notes, professionally satisfied with how the discussion had gone but personally rattled by Marcus's unexpected support.

"Stephanie."

She turned to find him standing nearby, two coffee cups in hand. He offered one to her, the movement highlighting the flex of his forearm.

"Chesapeake Coffee, medium roast, room for cream," he said matter-of-factly. “And a blueberry muffin.” He handed her a bag.

Stephanie accepted it, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The brief contact sent a spark up her arm. "Thank you. Though I'm beginning to wonder if I should be concerned about how closely you're tracking my food and drink."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Observation, not tracking. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Tracking implies surveillance. Observation is simply noticing."

Something in his tone made her look up sharply. His dark eyes were steady behind his glasses, holding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"And you notice a lot, don't you?" she asked, hearing the slight huskiness in her voice.

"I notice what matters."

The simple statement hung between them, loaded with implications neither of them seemed ready to address. Stephanie took a sip of coffee to hide her reaction. It was perfectly prepared—just the right amount of cream.

"Your support in there," she said, changing the subject, "about the community programs. I didn't expect that."

"It was factually accurate."

"But not the cold analytics perspective I've come to expect."

Marcus considered this. "Perhaps your expectations need updating."

Before she could respond, Chenny called from across the room, needing her input on a social media question. Stephanie hesitated, strangely reluctant to end the conversation.

"We should continue our strategy discussion," she said. "For the presentation to ownership."

Marcus nodded. "My place? After practice? I have the data infrastructure already set up."

The suggestion was perfectly reasonable, perfectly professional. So why did images of his apartment—of being alone with him in a private space—send a rush of heat through her body?

"Text me the address," she said, already turning away. "I'll bring dinner."

As she crossed to Chenny, Stephanie was acutely aware of Marcus's eyes following her. In fact, she had the distinct impression he was watching her walk away with more than professional interest.