Page 6

M arcus

Marcus lived for morning skates. The crisp ice surface, the sharp sound of blades cutting through frozen water, the satisfying click of tape-to-tape passes—all of it brought him clarity nothing else could match.

This morning, though, his focus kept drifting to the stands where Stephanie sat with her tablet. She pretended to review media notes, but her eyes tracked him across the ice more often than they stayed on her screen. He texted her a bunch of times this morning, but she hadn’t responded.

"Eyes up, Adeyemi!" Coach Vicky barked as a pass from Kane nearly sailed past him.

Marcus snapped back to attention, adjusting his position just in time to catch the puck and fire a hard outlet pass to Dmitri streaking up the wing. The Russian winger transitioned smoothly into the offensive zone, completing the breakout drill with a slick finish.

"Better," Coach nodded. "Again."

They ran the sequence again, Marcus forcing his attention on the ice rather than wondering why Stephanie had blown him off in their texts this morning. She'd canceled their strategy session with some bullshit about "ownership meetings" that Coach Vicky knew nothing about when he'd casually asked.

Something was off, and the uncertainty gnawed at him.

"Spreadsheets, pair up with Thompson for D-zone coverage," Coach called, pointing toward the end of the ice where Jax was already setting up.

Marcus pushed off, skating toward his defensive partner with powerful strides. Six-foot-four and built like a concrete wall, Jax was the physical hammer to Marcus's tactical chisel—a pairing Coach Vicky had doubted initially but that had become the team's shutdown duo.

"Your head's somewhere else today," Jax commented as they took position.

"Focused on the drill," Marcus countered, dropping into his stance.

Jax snorted. "Yeah, and I'm secretly a figure skater. Your eyes keep drifting to the stands. Specifically to a certain PR director with killer legs."

Marcus didn't bother denying it. Jax read people as well as he read opposing forwards—a skill that made him both an excellent defenseman and an annoying teammate.

"Professional concerns," Marcus said flatly.

"Professional. Right." Jax adjusted his helmet. "Look, I don't give a shit about locker room gossip, but whatever's happening between you two is messing with your game. Fix it."

Before Marcus could respond, Coach blew her whistle, sending Kane, Dmitri, and Chenny charging into their defensive zone. Marcus cleared his head, dropping into the familiar rhythm of shutdown defense. Read the rush. Identify the threat. Position. Anticipate.

Kane, always crafty, feinted left then cut right, looking for a seam. Marcus shadowed him, stick in the passing lane, body angled to cut off the space. Kane tried a drop pass to Chenny, but Marcus had seen the play developing before Kane even thought of it. He intercepted cleanly and rifled the puck up the boards to clear the zone.

"That's what I'm talking about!" Coach shouted approvingly.

The drill continued, five more rushes that Marcus handled with increasing confidence. The game reclaimed him, pushing aside thoughts of amber eyes and ignored messages.

Until the sixth rush, when he glanced toward the stands again and Dmitri caught him flat-footed, blowing past for a clean shot on goal.

"Goddammit, Adeyemi," Coach growled as Liam fished the puck from the net. "Whatever's in your head, check it at the fucking boards. We leave for Toronto tomorrow and I need you locked in."

Toronto. His hometown. Usually his favorite road trip, a chance to see his sister and grab dinner at his mother's place. But with the ownership mess and why Stephanie hadn’t returned his texts...

"Yes, Coach," he acknowledged, tapping his stick on the ice in the universal hockey gesture of "my bad."

As practice ended, Marcus headed for the tunnel, yanking off his helmet and gloves. Stephanie had vanished from the stands—probably hiding in her office to avoid the conversation he was damn well going to make happen.

In the locker room, he showered quickly and threw on the dark gray suit he'd picked out that morning. He didn't usually give a shit about clothes, but he'd noticed Stephanie's eyes lingered longer when he wore dark colors. Not that he was trying to manipulate her—just playing the odds.

He found her exactly where he expected—in her office, door closed, phone pressed to her ear as she paced by the window. Her expression was tight, controlled in the way he recognized from post-game media disasters.

Marcus waited in the corridor, making his presence obvious without barging in. When she finally ended the call and opened the door, surprise flashed across her face before her professional mask slammed back into place.

"Marcus. I was just about to text you."

"I thought you were avoiding me." He'd never seen the point in circling around the net when a straight shot would do.

Her eyes narrowed. "I told you, I have ownership meetings."

"No, you don't. I checked with Coach Vicky." He held her gaze steadily. "Whatever's happening, lying to me isn't going to fix it."

Stephanie glanced past him to the corridor, then reluctantly waved him into her office. As she closed the door, Marcus noticed the tension in her shoulders, the slight imperfections in her usually flawless appearance—a strand of hair falling loose, a coffee stain on a discarded napkin suggesting she'd already downed multiple cups.

"You don't have to tell me what's wrong," he said, staying on his feet rather than taking a seat. "But our presentation to ownership is tomorrow, and your evasion is screwing up our preparation."

"Screwing up," she repeated, a spark returning to her eyes. "Always the romantic."

The unexpected teasing caught him off guard. "I'm stating facts."

"You always are." She moved behind her desk, putting a barrier between them. "The presentation is ready. Your analytics are solid, and I've added the narrative elements we discussed. We're good to go."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Then what is?" The question came with a defensive edge he hadn't heard since their early battles over media access.

Marcus weighed his approach. Direct confrontation would just make her retreat further. Instead, he went with simple honesty.

"You," he said plainly. "Something's wrong, and I want to know what it is. While I respect your privacy, your well-being affects our working relationship and the team's stability during a critical transition."

Stephanie stared at him. Finally, she let out a short, incredulous laugh. “That might be the most emotionally aware thing I've ever heard you say, wrapped in the most robotic packaging possible."

"I'm working on finding a balance," he admitted.

Her smile vanished as quickly as it appeared. "It's complicated. And not something I can get into right now."

"Because you don't trust me?"

The blunt question hung between them. Stephanie's eyes widened.

"It's not about trust," she said finally. "It's about protection."

"You're protecting yourself," he concluded.

"No." She met his gaze directly. "I'm protecting you."

Her answer surprised him. In his experience, people rarely worried about his welfare—not because they didn't care, but because he'd always handled his own problems.

"I don't need protection," he said, taking a step toward her desk, the barrier between them suddenly unbearable.

"Everyone does sometimes." She shifted, her professional armor cracking just enough to reveal something vulnerable beneath. "Even hard-ass defensemen who block slap shots for fun."

The hockey reference pulled an unexpected smile from him. "You were paying attention to practice."

"I always pay attention," she admitted, color touching her cheeks. "It's part of my job to understand how the team functions."

Marcus filed away this new information—she regularly watched him on the ice—with a satisfaction that had nothing to do with hockey. He moved around the edge of her desk, narrowing the distance between them.

"Tell me what’s going on." His voice dropped lower, the question more personal than professional.

She took a half-step back, her hip bumping against the desk. "I told you—"

"You told me what you thought I needed to hear." Another step closer. "Not the truth."

Stephanie swallowed, the movement drawing his attention to the line of her throat. "Reed sent another message. He mentioned you specifically."

Marcus stilled. "What did he say?"

"It’s what we discussed yesterday. He hinted that you might find your career affected if I continue to align with you professionally." Her voice was steady, but her hands weren't—a tremor visible as she pushed that loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"So you pulled back to protect me." It wasn't a question. The realization hit him like a blindside check—unexpected and oddly affecting.

"It seemed logical," she said, a hint of self-deprecating humor in her voice. "I thought you'd appreciate the rationality of it."

"I don't." He moved closer still, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to maintain eye contact. "I don't need someone else making decisions about my career or my relationships."

The word 'relationships' hung between them, loaded with implications neither had voiced.

"Marcus..." His name on her lips sounded like a warning and an invitation simultaneously.

"I saw you watching me on the ice today," he said, voice rougher than intended. "Why?"

The directness of the question startled her. "I told you—"

"The truth, Stephanie."

Her eyes flashed with challenge and something hotter. "Because I like watching you play." Her voice dropped lower. "Happy now?"

"Getting there." He was close enough now to see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. "I missed a pass today because I was watching you in the stands."

Her breath caught. "That's not very professional of you, Spreadsheets."

"No," he agreed, "it's not."

The tension between them had shifted from confrontational to something far more dangerous. Marcus was acutely aware of every detail—the way her breath had quickened, how her body angled toward his despite her attempt to maintain distance, the slight parting of her lips as she watched him. His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingering there just long enough for her to notice. He had always believed in direct action over lengthy deliberation. Making a split-second decision—the kind that had saved countless goals throughout his career—he closed the final distance between them. His hand came up to cup her face, thumb brushing gently along her cheekbone. Her skin was softer than he'd imagined, warm beneath his touch. He paused, giving her one last chance to pull away.

She didn't. Instead, she tugged him closer.

"I've been wondering what this would be like for months," she admitted, eyes locked on his.

"Let's find out."

The first brush of his lips against hers was deliberately gentle. When his tongue traced the seam of her lips, she granted access with a sigh that he felt everywhere. His restraint lasted only seconds before Stephanie made a small sound in the back of her throat, her mouth opening beneath his, and everything ignited.

Marcus deepened the kiss, his free hand sliding to her waist, pulling her flush against him. She responded instantly, one hand moving to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. The sensation sent heat racing down his spine.

He backed her gently against the desk, lifting her slightly to sit on its edge. Her legs parted to accommodate him, bringing their bodies closer. The kiss turned urgent, hungry, months of tension finally finding release. Stephanie kissed like she did everything else—with passion, challenging him at every turn, making him work for every reaction.

Her hands moved over his shoulders, pulling him closer as if trying to eliminate any remaining space between them.

A knock on the door broke them apart, breathing hard.

"Stephanie? Coach Vicky wants to discuss the Toronto media schedule." Oliver's voice called through the door.

For a moment, they stared at each other. Marcus admired her flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and darkened eyes. He'd never seen anything more appealing in his life—including a wide-open net.

"One minute," Stephanie called back, voice impressively steady despite her appearance.

She disentangled herself from him, smoothing her skirt and running a hand through her hair. Marcus stepped back reluctantly, straightening his tie and trying to regain his composure.

"That was..." she began.

"Overdue," he finished.

A smile played at her lips—lips he now knew tasted even better than he'd imagined. "We need to talk about this."

"Toronto," he agreed. "On the plane."

"Toronto," she echoed, a new promise in the word.

As Marcus headed for the door, he paused, turning back to her. "Just so we're clear—I make my own decisions about who I align with, professionally and personally. Reed's threats change nothing."

Stephanie nodded. "Understood."

He opened the door, nodding to Oliver who waited in the corridor. As he walked away, Marcus heard Stephanie begin discussing the media schedule with Chenny, her voice completely professional as if she hadn't just been thoroughly kissed against her desk.

The woman's composure was truly remarkable. Almost as remarkable as the way she kissed.

As Marcus headed back to the locker room, he caught himself counting the hours until they'd board the team plane tomorrow morning and be with her again.

***

S TEPHANIE

Stephanie watched Marcus leave, his broad shoulders filling the doorframe as he stepped into the corridor. When Oliver finally left and the door closed behind him, she collapsed into her chair, fingers touching her lips where Marcus's had been only moments before.

That kiss. God, that kiss. She'd been fighting her attraction to him for months, channeling it into professional sparring matches instead of what she really wanted. And now that she knew how his mouth felt against hers, how his hands felt on her body, how he tasted—there was no going back.

But the message that had started this whole morning still glowed ominously on her phone screen:

Westfield tells me you're working closely with Adeyemi on some community project. Interesting choice of ally. His analytics destroyed Chambers' career in Vancouver, you know. Once a numbers guy, always a numbers guy. Careful who you trust, Steph.

Stephanie stared at Reed's words again, recognizing the manipulation for what it was. Classic Reed—trying to drive a wedge between her and Marcus by linking him to Kevin Chambers, a coach whose career had ended after a scathing analytical review. The message was obvious: See? Marcus is just like me. He uses numbers to destroy people too. Don't trust him.

She'd spent the morning researching the Vancouver situation instead of meeting with Marcus, terrified that he might actually be the ruthless numbers guy Reed was painting him as. What she'd found told an entirely different story.

Yes, Marcus's analytics had identified fundamental flaws in Chambers' system, but he hadn't published them publicly or used them as a weapon. They'd been leaked by someone in management, twisted and used in a way Marcus never intended. He'd even spoken out afterward, arguing that the data had been presented without proper context and used unfairly.

The irony wasn't lost on her. Reed was using the exact same playbook against Marcus that he'd used against her in Boston—twisting facts to create a false narrative. He was trying to poison her against the one person who might actually understand what she was facing.

Marcus wasn't the enemy. He never had been. Their professional disagreements came from different approaches to the same goal—protecting the team and helping them succeed.

And that kiss... That wasn't professional at all. That was pure chemistry, the kind she hadn't felt in years. The kind that made her stomach flip and her skin tingle just remembering it.

Her office phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. The receptionist's voice came through, falsely cheerful.

"Ms. Ellis? Jack Westfield is here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he says it's important."

Stephanie's pulse jumped, but her voice stayed steady. "Send him in."

She stood, straightening her blazer and running a hand through her hair, trying to erase any evidence of Marcus's touch. Battle mode engaged.

Jack Westfield entered with the confident stride of a man accustomed to ownership. Tall, silver-haired, and expensively dressed, he carried himself with the easy arrogance of privilege she'd learned to manage throughout her career.

"Ms. Ellis. Thank you for making time." His handshake was firm, his smile practiced. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything crucial."

Just sorting through the aftermath of getting thoroughly kissed by your star defenseman, she thought wryly.

"Not at all. How can I help you?"

"I understand you and Mr. Adeyemi are preparing a presentation on our community programs." He dropped uninvited into the chair opposite her desk. "I'm intrigued by this partnership. I was under the impression you two had somewhat adversarial professional viewpoints."

The casual reference to their working relationship sent warning bells clanging in her head. How closely had they been watched? Did he somehow know about what had just happened?

"Professional disagreement is healthy," she replied carefully. "We both want what's best for the organization, even if we sometimes differ on approach."

"I see." Westfield's smile never reached his eyes. "I've always believed that creative tension produces the best results. Speaking of results—an old colleague of yours reached out. Preston Reed? He speaks very highly of your time together in Boston."

Stephanie kept her expression neutral through sheer force of will. "Mr. Reed and I had different philosophies as well."

"So diplomatic." Westfield chuckled. "He mentioned you were skilled at... what did he call it? 'Narrative control.' I believe that was the phrase."

Each word felt like a landmine being placed at her feet. Stephanie navigated carefully.

"Effective PR requires understanding both what should be communicated and how. Mr. Reed preferred a more data-driven approach that sometimes overlooked human elements."

"The eternal conflict between numbers and narrative." Westfield leaned forward. "Which brings me to my visit. Preston has offered to consult on our organizational restructuring, given his experience with analytics integration in Boston. I'd value your thoughts, considering your history."

The trap was beautifully laid. If she objected, she'd seem petty and unprofessional. If she endorsed him, she'd enable her own destruction.

"Mr. Reed certainly has a distinctive approach to organizational management," she said carefully. "I'm sure you'll make the decision that best serves Darby & Darby's vision for the Chill."

Westfield studied her, seeming both impressed and amused by her diplomatic dodge.

"You know, Stephanie—may I call you Stephanie?—I admire professionals who've weathered difficult transitions. It builds character." His tone stayed conversational, but his eyes hardened. "Preston mentioned there were some personal conflicts in Boston. I trust those wouldn't resurface should we bring him on board?"

And there it was—the veiled threat, so similar to what she'd faced three years ago. History repeating itself with crushing predictability.

"My only concern is the well-being of this organization and its public image," she replied, meeting his gaze steadily. "I work effectively with anyone who shares that priority."

"Excellent." Westfield stood, apparently satisfied. "I look forward to your presentation tomorrow. Reed mentioned you might have concerns about our analytics direction, but I'm pleased to see you embracing change."

As he reached the door, he turned back with an afterthought that felt precisely calculated. "Oh, and please extend my regards to Mr. Adeyemi. His work in Vancouver was particularly impressive—though I understand the fallout was unfortunate for some parties. Analytical truth can be so disruptive, don't you agree?"

The door closed behind him before Stephanie could respond. She sat frozen, processing what had just happened. The message couldn't be clearer: Reed was coming back into her professional life, with Westfield's full support. And they were already using the same Chambers situation to try to drive a wedge between her and Marcus—first Reed's text suggesting Marcus was ruthless with analytics, now Westfield implying the same thing.

They were working together to isolate her, just like in Boston.

She touched her lips again, still feeling the ghost of Marcus's kiss. Less than ten minutes ago, he'd held her against her desk, kissed her like she was essential to him, and told her plainly that he made his own decisions about who he aligned with.

"Reed's threats change nothing," he'd said with that unwavering confidence.

But he didn't know the full picture. He didn't know what Reed was truly capable of. He didn't know that Reed was actively trying to poison their alliance by painting Marcus as a villain in her eyes with the Chambers story.

She grabbed her phone, her first instinct to warn him, to explain everything. But what would that accomplish? Marcus would insist on fighting alongside her, his tactical mind unable to accept retreat as the best play. He'd already made that clear. He'd risk his position—his reputation—for an alliance that was barely a week old and a kiss that had just happened.

No. She couldn't let that happen. Not until she had a better plan.

With shaking hands, she pulled up their text conversation and typed:

Need to focus on media prep for the road trip. Will have to postpone our strategy discussion on the plane. The presentation is solid as is. We'll connect in Toronto if needed.

Another lie, another evasion. But necessary to keep him at a safe distance until she figured out how to navigate Reed's return without Marcus becoming collateral damage.

His response came immediately:

Is this related to Westfield's unscheduled visit to your office?

Stephanie stared at the message. How the hell did he know? Had he been watching? Waiting?

Before she could respond, another text arrived:

Chenny mentioned seeing him enter. Your meeting lasted 7 minutes. Too short for actual business, suggesting either confrontation or a power play. Given your sudden cancellation, I'm betting these events are connected.

A reluctant smile crossed her lips despite everything. Even in text, Marcus was pure Marcus—observant, analytical, and surprisingly perceptive underneath all the hockey-player bluntness.

She typed back:

Sometimes I forget how plugged into team gossip you are for someone who claims to avoid social drama.

His reply was swift:

Not gossip. Reconnaissance. Different methods, same result. You're dodging the question.

God, he was impossible. And increasingly hard to keep at arm's length, especially now that she knew exactly how those hands felt on her waist, how his body felt pressed against hers.

We'll talk in Toronto. I promise. Some things can't be explained over text.

After a longer pause than usual, his response appeared:

Fine. But be aware my sister is expecting us both for dinner Friday night.

Stephanie nearly dropped her phone. Before she could craft a response that didn't sound completely panicked, he sent another message:

This is non-negotiable. Amara is more relentless than Coach Vicky during playoff conditioning. Consider it an opportunity to gather intelligence about your ally from primary sources.

The formal wording couldn't hide what this was: Marcus Adeyemi, the team's shutdown defenseman who had just kissed her senseless in her office, was inviting her into his personal life. Creating a connection that couldn't be dismissed as merely professional.

As threats went, it was infinitely more unsettling than anything Reed or Westfield had implied.

Fine. But I'm not answering personal questions about our "alliance." And we need to talk about what happened in my office.

His final text carried a note of triumph she could practically hear in his voice:

Noted. And yes, we absolutely will. Pack appropriately for Toronto weather. Current forecast suggests temperatures 8-10 degrees below New Haven norms.

Such a hard-ass, even in victory. Stephanie put down her phone, caught between laughter and tears at the absurdity of her situation. Reed was scheming to destroy her career again, trying to turn her against Marcus with manipulative half-truths about the Chambers situation. Westfield was playing along, echoing the same narrative. And the entire organization hung in the balance.

And somehow, despite all that, the prospect of having dinner with Marcus and his sister in Toronto terrified her most.

Because professional threats she could handle. She'd built defenses, created contingencies, prepared for worst-case scenarios.

But Marcus seeing past her carefully constructed image, learning who she really was beneath the polished PR director exterior? That was uncharted territory with no strategic playbook.

And now that he'd kissed her—now that the line between professional and personal had been thoroughly crossed—there was no going back. Her lips still tingled from his kiss, her body still hummed with want, and her mind kept replaying his words: "Reed's threats change nothing."

She hoped he was right. But Reed was already trying to drive them apart with the Chambers story, and that was just his opening move. As anyone in hockey knew, the most dangerous plays were the ones you never saw coming.