Page 5

S tephanie

Marcus's apartment was exactly what Stephanie had expected: minimalist, organized, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking New Haven's harbor. What she hadn't expected was the wall of bookshelves filled with actual paper books—everything from advanced statistical theory to classic literature—or the baby grand piano in the corner.

"You play?" she asked, setting down the takeout bags on his kitchen island. She'd brought Thai food, a safe choice that offered variety without being too presumptuous. Though she'd never admit it, she'd spent way too long deciding what to bring to what was supposed to be a purely professional meeting.

Marcus glanced at the piano as if just remembering it was there. "Not well. It was my father's. The mathematics of music appealed to him."

Stephanie nodded, filing away this new piece of the puzzle that was Marcus. "It's beautiful."

"Functional," he corrected, but there was something soft in his expression that belied the response.

She turned away, unpacking the food to hide how that glimpse of vulnerability affected her. The man who argued statistics and probabilities on the ice had kept his father's piano. She hadn't prepared for that.

"I brought options. I wasn't sure what you'd prefer."

"Thoughtful," he said, moving to the kitchen to gather plates.

He rolled up his sleeves as he worked, revealing forearms corded with muscle. Stephanie caught herself staring at his hands—strong, capable hands that could block a slap shot one minute and handle delicate stemware the next. Heat bloomed unexpectedly in her belly.

"Though unnecessary. I'm not particular about food," he added.

"Everyone's particular about something, Marcus."

He paused, looking up at her use of his first name. They typically maintained last-name formality, even during yesterday's tentative truce. The sound of it hung in the air between them, oddly intimate in the quiet of his apartment.

"True," he conceded, his voice lower than before. "I prefer order. Predictability."

"And yet you play one of the most chaotic, unpredictable sports professionally."

"Hockey isn't chaotic to me." He began transferring food to plates, the movement pulling his shirt taut across broad shoulders that she definitely wasn't noticing. "It's patterns in motion. Variables that can be analyzed and predicted."

"Is that how you see people too? Variables to be analyzed?"

The question slipped out before she could filter it—more personal than their usual professional sparring. Her voice had softened without permission. Marcus considered it seriously, handing her a plate before answering, his fingers brushing hers in the exchange. The brief contact shouldn't have felt electric, but it did.

"I used to," he admitted. "It was... simpler. Safer."

The candor caught her off guard. "And now?"

"Now I recognize that the most interesting variables are the ones that defy prediction." His eyes met hers, dark and intent. "The most valuable data points are often outliers."

Something molten unfurled in her chest at the way he looked at her—like she was a puzzle he wanted to solve, not for the sake of solving, but for the pleasure of understanding. The thought was both unsettling and thrilling.

They moved to his dining table, where he'd already set up dual monitors and what appeared to be a comprehensive analysis of the Chill's community programs. Stephanie was impressed despite herself—he'd clearly been working on this since the morning meeting.

"You've been busy," she observed, taking the seat beside him. The chair was close enough that their knees almost touched, close enough that she caught the clean scent of his soap—something woodsy that made her want to lean in closer.

"Thorough," he corrected, pulling up the first data set. "The ownership transition creates a narrow window for intervention. We need to present our case before they implement changes."

For the next hour, they worked in surprising harmony, her narrative expertise complementing his analytical approach. Stephanie found herself leaning closer than necessary to view his monitor, hyperaware of the heat radiating from his body. Several times their fingers brushed as they both reached for the same document, each touch sending sparks across her skin.

"This isn't just about numbers for you, is it?" she asked during a brief break, finding herself genuinely impressed by the complexity of his models, which incorporated factors she'd never expected him to value—emotional resonance, community trust indicators, player satisfaction metrics.

Marcus adjusted his glasses, drawing her attention to his eyes—dark, intelligent, and currently fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"Numbers are tools, not ends in themselves. They describe reality; they don't define it."

"That's... surprisingly philosophical."

"Is it surprising because it's philosophical, or because it came from me?"

The question was direct but not accusatory. Stephanie considered it honestly, aware that she was seeing new dimensions to him tonight—dimensions that were becoming harder to ignore.

"Both, I suppose," she admitted. "I've misjudged you."

"As I've misjudged you." He set aside his tablet and turned to face her fully, his knee now definitely touching hers under the table. "Your opposition to analytics—it's not about the data itself, is it? It's about how it's been weaponized."

The observation was too close to her experience with Preston Reed. Stephanie felt her defenses rising automatically, her expression closing off.

"We should focus on the presentation," she said, reaching for her notes.

Marcus didn't press, but she felt his eyes on her—not in the cold, calculating way she'd once assumed he approached everything, but with genuine interest. Maybe even concern. The weight of his gaze was like a physical touch.

"I apologize," he said after a moment. "That was presumptive."

The unexpected apology disarmed her. When was the last time a male colleague had simply acknowledged overstepping without demanding explanation or justification? The rarity of it made her look at him—really look at him—and the intensity of his gaze nearly stole her breath.

"It's fine," she said, softer than intended. "You're not entirely wrong."

He nodded, accepting this partial confirmation without pushing for more. Another surprise. She found herself studying the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip, wondering absurdly what it might feel like against her own.

They returned to work, the rhythm of their collaboration smoother now, punctuated by occasional insights and moments of levity. Stephanie relaxed in his company, the defensive posture she maintained with most colleagues gradually easing. Their chairs had somehow migrated closer, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they worked.

When her phone buzzed with a text, she almost ignored it, reluctant to break this unexpected connection. But a PR director was never truly off-duty.

The message preview made her blood run cold.

Reed: Dinner tomorrow? We should discuss your future with the organization. Darby values loyalty in his team.

Her hand trembled slightly as she turned the phone face-down on the table, hoping Marcus hadn't noticed. But of course he had—those observant eyes missed nothing.

"Bad news?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"Just work." The lie felt bitter on her tongue, especially after the honest exchange they'd been building. But some walls were necessary for survival.

Marcus studied her for a moment, then did something entirely unexpected. He reached out and covered her hand with his—the gesture gentle but deliberate, his palm warm against her skin, fingers curling slightly around hers.

"Whatever it is," he said quietly, "you don't have to manage it alone. That's what alliances are for."

The simple offer of support—without demands for explanation, without qualification—cracked something in Stephanie's carefully maintained composure. For a dangerous moment, she considered telling him everything: about Reed, about Boston, about why she guarded her professional reputation so fiercely.

Instead, she took a steadying breath, acutely aware that she hadn't pulled her hand away from his. "Thank you. But some battles need to be fought solo."

"Statistically speaking, that's rarely true."

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "There's the Spreadsheets I know."

His expression remained serious, but his thumb traced a small, maddening circle on the back of her hand. "My point stands. Teams outperform individuals in virtually every metric."

"Even on the defensive side of things?" she asked, attempting to lighten the moment despite the electricity running up her arm from his touch.

"Especially on defense." He held her gaze, leaning slightly closer. "Having someone watch your blind side is how you survive in this game."

The double meaning wasn't lost on her. Stephanie felt something shift inside her chest—a recalibration of how she viewed Marcus and what he might mean to her beyond their professional alliance. His face was just inches from hers now, close enough that she could see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes, close enough that the slightest movement forward would bring their lips together.

Dangerous territory.

Her phone buzzed again—another message from Reed. This time, Marcus definitely noticed her reaction. His hand tightened slightly on hers before releasing it, the loss of contact almost as jarring as the touch had been.

"Stephanie," he said, her first name sounding different in his voice, deeper, more significant somehow. "If someone is threatening you—"

"It's not that simple," she interrupted, gathering her notes abruptly, needing distance from the magnetic pull between them. "And we have more pressing concerns with this presentation."

Marcus didn't argue, but she could feel his concern like a tangible thing between them. He respected her boundaries—another quality she hadn't expected from him—but his eyes told her the conversation wasn't over.

"We've made good progress," he said instead, shutting down one of the monitors. "The data framework is solid. Your narrative overlay makes the case more compelling than numbers alone."

"See? We do make a good team." She aimed for a light tone, desperate to restore their professional equilibrium even as part of her mourned the lost moment.

"We do," he agreed, his voice quiet but certain. "Better than projected."

As she gathered her things to leave, Stephanie felt herself at a crossroads. The strategic alliance they'd formed to navigate the ownership transition had become something more complex—not quite friendship, definitely not just professional, but something that made her skin tingle and her heart race in ways she couldn't afford.

And now Reed was back, threatening everything she'd rebuilt. If he had Darby's ear, her position was precarious at best. Having Marcus as an ally was valuable professionally—but if Reed targeted him too, as he inevitably would once he realized they were working together...

"Stephanie," he said, reaching out to touch her arm just above her wrist. His fingers traced a light pattern against her skin, sending a shiver through her body. The use of her first name stopped her at the threshold. "Whatever you're facing—you have backup now. Whether you want it or not."

The simple declaration hung in the air between them. Not a question, not a plea for confidence, but a statement of fact—delivered with the same certainty he brought to his analytics. His body was close enough that she could feel his warmth, smell the clean scent of his skin. For one wild moment, she imagined closing that final distance between them, pressing her body against his, discovering if his mouth tasted as good as it looked.

"Goodnight, Marcus," she said softly, unable to trust herself with more.

As she walked to her car, Stephanie's mind raced with contradictory imperatives. Professional survival demanded distance—Reed had destroyed everyone who'd allied with her in Boston. But something deeper, something she'd denied herself for three years, craved the connection that was unexpectedly forming with Marcus. Not just his mind, but his body, his hands, his mouth.

Her phone buzzed a third time.

Reed: Playing hard to get again? We both know how that ended last time. Be smart, Stephanie. Some power dynamics never change.

She deleted the message, hand shaking with a combination of fear and fury. In her rearview mirror, she could see Marcus still standing in his doorway, watching to ensure she reached her car safely.

The contrast between the two men couldn't have been more stark.

Reed had once told her that everyone was predictable if you had enough data points—that her resistance was just another variable he could manipulate. He'd nearly destroyed her with that cold certainty.

But Marcus, with his careful observations and unexpected tenderness, saw patterns to understand, not to control. His touch had been an offer, not a demand. His concern genuine, not calculating.

And that, Stephanie realized as she drove away, was what made him dangerous in an entirely different way.

Because for the first time in three years, she was considering letting someone past her defenses. Someone who might actually be worthy of the trust she'd sworn never to extend again.

The question was whether she could afford the risk—professionally or personally. And why, despite all her carefully constructed walls, she couldn't stop thinking about how close his lips had been to hers, and what might have happened if she'd been brave enough to find out.

***

M ARCUS

Marcus arrived at Chesapeake Coffee early enough to claim the ideal table—corner booth, good sightlines, minimal foot traffic—but not so early as to seem desperate.

He'd barely slept, his mind stuck on replay of last night. Stephanie's reaction to those texts. The way her whole body had tensed up. How she'd bolted despite the chemistry building between them. He'd run the tape on each reaction from multiple angles, but still couldn't read the play developing between them.

The coffee shop bustled with its morning rush, suits grabbing caffeine before heading downtown. Marcus ordered his usual—medium black—and waited, eyes tracking the entrance while reviewing the Chill's upcoming road trip on his tablet. A bruise from blocking a slap shot during yesterday's practice had darkened his forearm. He didn't bother hiding it. Hockey marks were badges of honor you earned the hard way.

At 7:36, Stephanie walked in.

She wore a navy suit over a cream blouse that hugged curves he definitely noticed, hair styled to perfection, makeup flawless—her game face fully on. Only the slight tightness around her eyes gave away her stress, a tell he'd picked up over months of watching her handle media shit-storms.

"Morning," she said, sliding into the seat across from him. "Sorry I'm late."

"You're not," he replied. "You're right on time."

A hint of a smile touched her lips before vanishing.

The server appeared, and Stephanie ordered her usual medium roast with room for cream. Marcus watched her hands as she took the cup—elegant fingers with short nails painted a deep red that matched her suit. Hockey taught you to notice details. Hers were worth noticing.

When they were alone again, silence stretched between them, heavier than their usual professional pauses. Marcus waited, knowing from countless high-pressure situations that sometimes letting play develop beat forcing the action.

"Thanks for meeting me," she finally said, eyes fixed on her coffee cup. "Especially after I bailed so suddenly last night."

"Those texts hit you hard," he said. "You needed space. I get it."

Her eyes lifted to his, surprised. "You're more perceptive than people think."

"I watch. That's all." He shrugged, the motion pulling his shirt across shoulders built from years of bodychecking forwards into the boards.

Her gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than necessary, a flash of heat in her eyes. She took a careful sip of coffee before speaking again.

"What I'm about to tell you isn't common knowledge. Coach Vicky knows parts of it. Kane knows bits. Nobody else on the team does."

Marcus nodded, giving her his full attention. On the ice, patience often revealed more than aggression.

Stephanie took a breath, her fingers wrapped around her coffee cup. "Three years ago, I was Assistant PR Director at a Boston firm. Preston Reed was the director brought in to modernize the department."

She paused, taking another sip. Marcus stayed quiet, the way he'd wait for plays to develop before committing.

"At first, we worked well together. I saw value in his data-driven approach, even when I disagreed with his methods. He seemed to respect my expertise." Her voice remained steady, but Marcus clocked her increased blink rate—classic stress signal. "Then things changed. Casual touches. Late-night texts. Invitations to discuss strategy over drinks."

Marcus felt heat rise in his chest, a familiar surge like the moment before dropping gloves with someone who'd crossed a line. His jaw clenched, knuckles tightening on his cup.

"When I refused him, he switched tactics," she continued. "Started undermining my work. Cherry-picked metrics to make my PR strategies look ineffective. Built models showing supposed harm from my media management approach."

"Weaponized data," Marcus growled, voice dropping to a dangerous register.

"Exactly." Their eyes met, hers flashing with recognition. "When I reported him, it backfired completely. He'd already created a narrative that I was hostile to innovation, resistant to analytical approaches. The organization saw my complaint as retaliation, not harassment."

Marcus absorbed this, connecting pieces that hadn't fit before. His body tensed with barely contained anger. "That's why you pushed back when I tried implementing the analytics board last season."

"It wasn't about the data," she clarified. "It was about how data gets manipulated to push agendas. How numbers without context become weapons."

"What happened to the people who backed your story?"

Her expression hardened. "Systematically removed. Demoted, transferred, fired for 'performance issues'—all justified with carefully selected metrics. Reed has connections everywhere. When I finally quit, his whisper campaign followed me. 'Difficult.' 'Uncooperative.' 'Can't adapt.'"

"Until Coach Vicky brought you here."

"She recognized a hit job when she saw one." A genuine smile briefly crossed her face. "Having faced plenty of bullshit herself."

Marcus absorbed this new information, recalibrating everything he thought he knew about Stephanie. The way she leaned forward, lips pressing together, throat exposed as she swallowed—he caught himself tracking every move, his focus more intense than during a playoff game.

"The texts last night were from Reed," he said, voice rough.

She nodded, eyes dropping to her coffee. "He's connected to Darby & Darby somehow. The messages implied he has Westfield's ear."

"That's a major threat to your position."

"To both our positions," she corrected, looking up sharply. "His version of analytics leaves no room for your approach any more than my narrative strategies."

Her insight surprised him—she understood his methods better than he'd realized. Her lips parted slightly as she spoke, and he caught himself wondering how they'd taste.

"What's his endgame?" Marcus asked, shifting in his seat to hide his reaction to her.

"Control. Power. Finishing what he started in Boston." She met his eyes directly. "And making sure I don't get in his way."

"Get in the way of what exactly?"

"I'm not sure yet. But whatever Darby & Darby's restructuring plans involve, Reed could be pulling strings behind the scenes." She leaned forward, close enough that he caught the scent of her perfume—subtle vanilla with something darker underneath. "That's why our community programs presentation matters so much. We need to show them that Reed's either/or approach is fundamentally flawed."

Marcus nodded, immediately seeing the play. "The presentation is solid. Your additions yesterday made it bulletproof."

"It's not just about the presentation," she said, hesitating before continuing more quietly. "It's about whether I can ask you to stand with me against Reed when I know what he's capable of doing. He could ruin your career."

The question hung between them, loaded with implications beyond their professional alliance. Marcus met her eyes directly, unflinching.

"Let him try."

"Marcus."

"No." His voice hardened. "In hockey, you never leave your partner exposed. Reed's tactics work by picking off people one by one. Together, we're harder to take down."

"That's very logical," she said with a small smile. "But this isn't just about logic. People who stood by me in Boston lost everything. I can't be responsible for that happening to you too."

"You're assuming my position is vulnerable like theirs was," he pointed out. "My analytics include elements pure numbers miss, creating value traditional systems can't match. Plus, I'm essential to our defensive scheme. Trying to remove me would tank team performance in ways ownership can't afford."

His blunt assessment wasn't arrogance—just the same clear-eyed evaluation he'd apply to any opponent's weakness.

Stephanie studied him, her teeth catching her lower lip in a way that made his blood run hot. "You've already gamed this out, haven't you?"

"Like any opponent's strategy."

"And our alliance factors into your gameplan?"

"Increasingly," he acknowledged, holding her gaze with an intensity that went well beyond professional interest.

She weighed his words, searching for hidden meanings. Finding none—because Marcus didn't play those games off the ice—she finally nodded.

"Okay. Alliance it is," she said. "But we need to be smart about this. Reed is watching us both."

"Agreed. Keep it professional in public. Minimal digital communication. Use secure channels for anything sensitive."

A laugh escaped her, the sound hitting him low in the gut. "I was thinking more like 'be careful what we say around others,' but your spy-movie version works too."

Their eyes met, an understanding passing between them that needed no words. For the first time since Reed's messages, Stephanie visibly relaxed, the tension in her shoulders easing.

"Toronto's next on the road trip," Marcus said, switching to tactical planning while trying not to fixate on the way her blouse gaped slightly when she leaned forward. "Three games in four nights."

"We leave Thursday morning," she confirmed. "We can work on the presentation while we’re there."

"It shouldn’t be all work though. My sister Amara lives in Toronto. She's been asking to meet you since I mentioned our professional situation."

Stephanie blinked at this unexpected turn. "Your sister wants to meet me?"

"She's curious about the PR director who challenges me regularly," he explained. "Amara finds people more interesting than I usually do."

"And you want me to meet her?" Stephanie asked carefully, her voice dropping to a register that sent heat crawling up his spine.

"She'll hound us both if I don't introduce you. She's relentless."

A slow smile spread across Stephanie's lips. "So this is about avoiding your sister's pestering, not introducing me to your family?"

"Both," he replied honestly, letting his gaze drop briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.

"I'll think about it," she said, not committing. "Let's see how the road trip goes first."

Marcus accepted this with a nod.

As they prepared to leave, Stephanie hesitated, then spoke softly. "Thank you, Marcus. For listening. For understanding. For not dismissing my concerns as paranoia."

"I'd never do that," he replied, voice rougher than intended. "Your assessment of Reed comes from direct experience—the same way I read plays on the ice. Your conclusions are solid."

His validation, delivered without sugar-coating, seemed to reach her in ways pretty words wouldn't have. Stephanie straightened, relief obvious in the way she moved—lighter, more fluid.

Outside, they maintained professional distance walking toward the practice facility. Anyone watching would see only the PR director and the defenseman having a typical work conversation.

"Same time tomorrow?" Marcus asked. "To work more on our presentation?"

Stephanie hesitated. "I might be tied up with ownership meetings. I'll let you know."

She was retreating, and they both knew it. But the current running between them was anything but typical. Marcus felt it in the way her gaze occasionally flicked to him, lingering on his shoulders, his hands, his mouth. He fought to keep his own eyes from tracking the sway of her hips in that perfectly fitted suit.

As she walked ahead into the building, Marcus took his time appreciating the view—the curve of her calves, the way her jacket tapered at her waist, the confident rhythm of her stride. He'd blocked shots from the league's hardest shooters without flinching, but this woman had him completely off balance.