Page 7 of Bar Down (Charm City Chill #2)

M arcus

The ice at Scotiabank Arena felt like coming home. Growing up in Toronto, Marcus had dreamed of playing here while watching Maple Leafs games with his father, mentally tracking shot angles from the stands.

As he carved deep edges during warm-up laps, his eyes kept drifting to the press area. Stephanie had avoided him throughout the flight from New Haven, burying herself in work at the back of the plane. After that kiss in her office yesterday, her sudden distance burned like a high stick to the ribs.

"Looking good, Spreadsheets," Kane called, gliding alongside. "Ready to show your hometown what you've got?"

"Always," Marcus replied, his focus snapping back. Game day. Toronto. No distractions.

"Trouble in paradise? Noticed Ellis keeping her distance on the plane."

Marcus shot Kane a warning look. "Don't start."

"Hey, just saying—for someone who had her lipstick on your collar yesterday, she's working pretty hard to avoid you today."

Marcus nearly stumbled mid-stride. "What did you just say?"

Kane grinned. "Chenny saw you leaving her office. Said you looked like you'd just scored in overtime. Then Westfield shows up five minutes later, and suddenly you two aren't speaking? Not hard to connect the dots, man."

"Focus on the game, not gossip," Marcus growled, accelerating away before Kane could dig deeper.

But his captain's words confirmed what he already suspected—Reed and Westfield's appearance had spooked Stephanie into retreat. After what she'd told him about Reed's threats and what he'd pieced together about their history in Boston, her reaction made more sense. She wasn't just being professional. She was being protective.

Which made that kiss all the more significant.

Practice flew by in a series of drills and systems work. When they left the ice, Marcus spotted Stephanie directing Chenny through a video segment. Her black blazer and rigid posture screamed professional distance, a stark contrast to the woman who'd wrapped her arms around his neck just yesterday. Their eyes met briefly across the arena, and he caught it—that flash of heat before she gave him a quick nod and turned away.

His phone buzzed as he headed to the locker room. It was his sister Amara.

Table for THREE in case your PR friend changes her mind about lunch too. Don't be late!

He didn't bother responding. His sister's stubbornness was legendary—and secretly appreciated. As the team bus returned to the hotel, Marcus ran through the odds: Stephanie joining them for dinner tomorrow (higher now after that kiss, despite her retreat), Amara asking embarrassing questions (absolute certainty), keeping things professional (impossible after feeling Stephanie's lips against his).

Instead of following his usual game-day routine, Marcus stopped at Stephanie's hotel room on his way to meet Amara.

One hard knock. The door opened to reveal Stephanie in jeans and a gray sweater—his first glimpse of her off-duty. The casual look suited her, softening the sharp edges she presented to the world. Her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Marcus. Shouldn't you be with your sister?"

"Heading there now," he said, fighting the urge to step closer, to see if she'd respond to him the way she had in her office. "She's saved you a place. If you want to join us."

Her expression softened before her professional mask slammed back into place. "I have calls scheduled. But thank her for me."

"The calls you made up after I invited you," he said bluntly.

Her lips pressed together, caught. "Has anyone mentioned your directness is a pain in the ass?"

"Frequently. Usually you."

A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. "Go have lunch with your sister, Marcus. I promise we'll talk before dinner tomorrow."

"Dinner is at seven. Amara's place, not my mother's. Less interrogation that way."

"I'm looking forward to it," she said, the sincerity surprising them both.

Marcus nodded, turning to leave before pausing. "About yesterday..."

Her breath caught, eyes darting to his lips before quickly looking away. "We shouldn't discuss that here."

"Not the kiss," he clarified, watching her cheeks flush at his directness. "Westfield and Reed."

Her expression went cold instantly. "What about them?"

"I noticed you researching the Vancouver situation with Chambers yesterday morning. Is that why you canceled our meeting?"

Shock flashed across her face. "How did you—"

"IT logged unusual search patterns from your office. Oliver mentioned it." He held her gaze. "The leak wasn't my doing. I spoke out against how management used that data."

"I know," she said quickly. "I found the articles. Reed must have known I'd look into it."

"Reed?" Marcus's eyes narrowed. "What did he say about Chambers?"

Stephanie hesitated, then sighed. "He texted me yesterday, trying to make me think you were just like him—using analytics to destroy careers. That's why I researched Vancouver instead of meeting you."

Understanding clicked into place. "So that's his play. Turn us against each other using the Vancouver situation."

"It didn't work," she said firmly. "Reed twisted the truth, just like he did in Boston."

Relief eased the tension he'd been carrying. "Good. Then we're still on the same page."

"It's not that simple, Marcus." Her voice dropped lower, more urgent. "Reed isn't just coming after me. He's setting you up too. If he has Westfield's ear—"

"Then our presentation needs adjustments," he finished. "We need to counter whatever narrative they're building."

Relief flickered across her face. "I've made revisions already. We'll review before submission."

"Good." He met her eyes directly. "Watch your back. Toronto media gets nasty during ownership transitions."

The switch to a more professional tone seemed to reassure her. "I've handled worse than Toronto reporters."

"I know," he said simply. "Game time is 7:30."

"I'll be there."

He hesitated, then added, "About the other thing... that's not going away either."

Her eyes met his, something vulnerable and wanting beneath her professional veneer. "I know.”

As he walked away, Marcus analyzed her reaction to the conversation—the tension in her shoulders giving way to something lighter when they discussed the kiss, the spark in her eyes when he promised they'd handle things together. Whatever threat she faced from Reed, she wasn't facing it alone anymore.

By the time he reached the lobby, he'd decided to bail on lunch with Amara. After texting his sister an excuse, he redirected his next two hours to digging into Preston Reed's time in Boston—specifically, his interactions with Stephanie and the pattern of career sabotage that followed.

Game prep could wait. Some variables mattered more than hockey. And after that kiss, Stephanie Ellis had become the most important variable in his equation.

***

S TEPHANIE

Stephanie stood near the press box, watching her players circle the visiting end during warmups, Kane leading with practiced confidence.

Her eyes tracked Marcus automatically. Number 47, each shot placed with sniper-like accuracy during his shooting routine. After their kiss yesterday, watching him felt different—more intimate, like she had access to a part of him others didn't. His powerful frame moved with surprising grace for a man who made his living shutting down the league's best scorers.

"Ellis! Didn't expect to see you in Toronto."

The voice froze her blood. Preston Reed materialized beside her, his tailored suit and practiced smile unchanged except for touches of gray at his temples.

"Reed," she acknowledged coolly. "I wasn't aware you had business in Toronto."

"I have business wherever Darby needs expertise." His eyes remained cold. "Jack mentioned your project with Adeyemi. Quite the turnaround from your usual stance on working with a numbers guy."

Stephanie kept her expression neutral despite her churning stomach. "The organization values multiple perspectives. Marcus and I have found productive common ground."

"Marcus, is it?" Reed's eyebrows rose. "How collegiate. Though defensive specialists have always been your type."

The threat beneath his words was familiar. Stephanie stiffened her spine.

"Was there something specific you needed, Reed? I'm preparing for media coordination."

"Just a friendly warning." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Adeyemi's work is being evaluated as we speak. Darby has concerns about his methodologies—too much emphasis on qualitative factors. Would be a shame if his approach was deemed obsolete."

Cold anger replaced her initial fear. The message was clear: Distance yourself from Marcus, or his career suffers. Just like he'd implied in his text about Chambers.

"If you're suggesting Marcus's work is anything less than exemplary," she replied evenly, "check his impact metrics over the past three seasons. His defensive systems reduced opposition scoring chances by 23% while increasing transition effectiveness by 18%." She let a sharp smile form. "But then, you always preferred manipulating data to actually understanding it."

Reed's expression hardened before smoothing back to practiced charm. "Always the fierce defender. That loyalty is admirable, if misplaced. Just remember what happened to your allies in Boston."

He disappeared into the press crowd. Stephanie unclenched her fists, steadying her breathing.

On the ice, the horn signaled the end of warmups. Marcus was the last to leave, his eyes scanning the press area until they found her. His gaze lingered, and she knew he could sense something was wrong, even from a distance—his analytical mind always tracking patterns, changes in behavior.

She gave him a small nod: I'm fine. Focus on the game.

He returned the nod before vanishing down the tunnel. Her phone buzzed almost immediately with a text.

Something happened. Telling me later is non-negotiable.

How could he read her so well from across an arena? Another text followed quickly.

More importantly: who was that man with you? Your body language changed completely.

Stephanie stared at the message. Of course Marcus wouldn't recognize Reed—they'd never met. But he'd noticed her reaction, cataloged it, identified the threat without knowing its source. It was exactly what made him such an effective defenseman. And now he was applying those skills to her.

Preston Reed. And yes, we'll talk. After the game. Play well.

She tucked her phone away, turning to her pre-game responsibilities, shoving Reed's threats aside. For the next three hours, nothing mattered but hockey. Personal concerns would wait.

But as she settled into her seat to watch the game, Stephanie realized something had fundamentally shifted. For the first time since Boston, she wasn't facing Reed's manipulation alone. That kiss in her office had changed more than just their relationship—it had changed how she approached this fight.

And watching Marcus take the ice for the opening faceoff, his focus absolute despite his concern for her, Stephanie felt something she hadn't experienced in years: the certainty that someone had her back.

Now she just had to make sure Reed didn't destroy him for it.

***

M ARCUS

Third period, Chill trailing Toronto 2-1. Marcus wasn't superstitious like other players who touched the same posts or taped their sticks exactly the same way before each game. He trusted systems, not luck. Still, his eyes drifted to the press box where Stephanie sat, tablet in hand. Something had spooked her before the game—he'd caught it in the set of her shoulders, the tension around her eyes.

He still didn't know who the suit talking to her had been, but whoever it was had shifted her from professional to defensive in seconds flat.

"Head in the fucking game, Spreadsheets," Jax growled as they set up for a defensive zone faceoff. "You've been checking the press box all night. Save it for after we win this thing."

Marcus snapped back to the ice, tapping his stick sharply against Jax's shin pad—their silent acknowledgment. Game face on. He analyzed Toronto's formation, noting their top center's slight lean to the right. Kane lost the draw clean. The Leafs' top line cycled the puck with dangerous speed, their passes crisp and threatening.

Marcus tracked movement patterns, feeling the play develop before it happened. Every player had tendencies, habits they fell into under pressure. Toronto's star winger always looked high glove side before shooting low blocker. Their center telegraphed passes with his back shoulder. Little tells that most players missed, but Marcus cataloged like battlefield intelligence.

When the one-timer came screaming from the left circle, Marcus had already shifted into position. The puck slammed into his shin pad with a sickening crack that would leave a bruise the size of a grapefruit tomorrow. Pain shot up his leg, but he barely registered it—just another day at the office.

The puck bounced toward the neutral zone. Marcus recovered instantly, driving forward to beat Toronto's forward to the loose puck. He lowered his shoulder, knocked the guy off balance without drawing a penalty, and fired a hard breakout pass to Dmitri streaking up the right wing.

What followed was hockey perfection. Dmitri carried over the blue line at full speed, drawing the defender before dropping a no-look pass to Kane cutting through the middle. Kane faked a shot, freezing the goaltender, then slid the puck to Chenny on the back door.

Tap-in. 2-2.

The Chill bench erupted. Marcus allowed himself a rare fist pump as he skated past. Coach Vicky's tight smile flashed as he returned for a line change.

"Fucking beautiful read," she acknowledged, thumping his shoulder pads. "Textbook execution."

The momentum swung hard in their favor. Toronto called timeout, but the Chill had found their groove. Marcus felt it—that collective rhythm when a team suddenly clicks. With five minutes left, they earned a power play when Toronto's defenseman got his stick between Dmitri's legs on a zone entry.

Marcus took his position at the point, surveying the offensive zone like a general. This was his element—seeing the patterns, identifying weaknesses, exploiting opportunities. Kane controlled the puck along the half-boards, Toronto's penalty kill collapsing toward him. Marcus recognized the formation—the same defensive overcommitment Boston had shown last week. He shifted to the center point, signaling with a subtle stick tap.

Kane saw it—the captain always did—firing a pass to Marcus at the blue line. Instead of the expected shot, Marcus immediately redirected to Dmitri on the opposite side. Toronto's defense scrambled, leaving a seam that Dmitri exploited with a rocket to the top corner.

3-2 Chill.

As the team celebrated, Marcus glanced toward the press area. Stephanie was on her feet, professional composure abandoned in the excitement. Their eyes locked across the distance, her smile brilliant and unreserved. Something kicked in his chest—a feeling that had nothing to do with hockey strategy and everything to do with that kiss in her office.

The final minutes passed in lockdown defensive play. Toronto pulled their goalie for an extra attacker with ninety seconds left. Marcus and Jax dug pucks out of corners, cleared rebounds, and denied zone entries with punishing efficiency. When a Toronto forward tried cutting through the slot, Marcus stepped into him with a clean, crushing hit that sent him sprawling.

"That's how we fucking do it!" Jax roared as they cleared the zone again.

When the final horn sounded, satisfaction surged through Marcus—a road win against his hometown team, sweeter because Stephanie had witnessed it.

In the locker room, media crowded around Kane and Dmitri. Marcus sat quietly in his stall, starting his recovery routine. He unwrapped the tape from his shin pads, revealing an angry welt already darkening from the blocked shot. He'd ice it later. Standard procedure.

His phone buzzed with a text.

Impressive defensive read on that game-tying play. Your analytical mind is even sharper on the ice than in meetings.

Heat spread through his chest at Stephanie's recognition of his contribution. Not that he needed validation, but hers mattered in a way most praise didn't.

He typed back: Statistical probability of you understanding hockey systems that well: 94%.

Her response came quickly: Busted. I've been studying game tape to keep up with you. Amara mentioned your mother's maple cookies today. Any chance those will be at dinner tomorrow?

Marcus stared at the message. He hadn't told Stephanie about his mother's cookies. And he definitely hadn't told her he'd ditched lunch with Amara to dig into Reed's history.

"Your sister is delightful," Stephanie said from the doorway, amusement dancing in her eyes. "We had a most illuminating lunch while you were busy running your unauthorized investigation into Preston Reed and my time in Boston."

Marcus looked up, genuinely surprised. "You went to lunch with her? I thought you had calls."

"After you canceled on her to do your research," Stephanie entered the locker room, ignoring curious glances from teammates. "she called me directly when you bailed. Said something about not wasting the reservation because you’re obsessed with taking down some Boston bigwig.”

"I wanted to know my enemy.”

“Then you should have gone to lunch and hung around the arena. He was here today.”

“Reed?” Marcus thought about the suit next to her and for a moment he saw red. “That’s who that guy was who was talking to you.”

"Yup.”

Around them, players finished interviews and headed to the showers. Kane caught Marcus's eye from across the room, giving a thumbs up before herding remaining media toward the door.

When they had relative privacy, Stephanie spoke again, her voice lower. "Reed approached me before the game. He's targeting your position now, because of our alliance."

"Makes sense after what I found about his Boston tactics. His pattern is isolating and discrediting anyone who challenges him."

"That's why we need to reconsider our strategy and stop working together, stop seeing each other," she insisted.

“Not going to happen.”

"Look, I can handle Reed. I've dealt with him before."

Marcus stood, closing the distance between them. In her heels, she was still nearly a head shorter, having to tilt her face to meet his eyes.

"The best defense isn't retreat," he said firmly. "It's a strong counter-attack. Reed's tactics rely on isolation. He picks off targets one by one."

"Reed destroyed careers in Boston. People who stood with me lost everything—positions, reputations, futures in hockey."

"I know. I reviewed what happened after Boston." His voice remained steady. "Six people backed your claims. Four fired within three months. One quit under pressure. The sixth demoted and shipped out."

"So you understand why I can't let you risk your position."

"I understand why you think backing off would protect me," he corrected. "But you're missing key advantages we have."

"Such as?"

"Coach Vicky isn't a pushover. Kane's got the team's respect. I'm essential to our defensive system." He paused, then added, "And I don't back down from tough opponents. Ever."

The locker room had emptied, players giving them privacy. In the quiet, only the hum of the air conditioning and distant sounds of arena staff breaking down equipment remained.

"This isn't about courage."

"Strategically, sticking together gives us the best chance." He stepped closer.

"What exactly are you proposing?" she asked.

"Total honesty. Shared intel. United front with ownership. No more unilateral decisions made for the other's protection.'"

"That would include running it by me before investigating my past," she countered.

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Agreed. Though the findings were interesting."

"And alarming, I imagine."

"Clarifying," he corrected. "Context changes everything."

"What exactly did you find?"

He hesitated, unusual for someone typically so direct. "Reed systematically targeted women in leadership. Pattern of intimidation followed by retaliation when rejected. Your case wasn't isolated—it was his standard playbook."

Stephanie appeared dumbstruck for a moment. "How many?"

"Three documented cases before you. Two after. All buried with NDAs."

"Shit." She closed her eyes briefly. “And the companies just...”

"Protected their interests," he finished, a rare edge entering his voice. "The pattern repeats across organizations."

"You're really pissed," she said when she opened her eyes again.

"It's bullshit."

"I can’t get you to back off on this?" she asked softly.

"Hell no."

"Even knowing the potential consequences?"

"Especially knowing them." His gaze on hers never wavered. "Reed will target me regardless. The only question is whether we face him separately or together."

"Okay," she said finally. "But we do this my way—with zero unnecessary risks."

"Define unnecessary," he challenged.

"Don't push it, Spreadsheets." But the exhaustion in her voice had been replaced by something warmer.

“We’ll keep our distance in public. But in private...” he moved in closer.

A knock interrupted them. Kane's head appeared around the door, grinning.

"Sorry to interrupt whatever's happening here," he said, not looking remotely sorry, "but bus back to the hotel leaves in fifteen. Unless you two have other transportation plans?" The suggestive tone earned him a glare from Stephanie.

"We'll be on the bus," she assured him.

Kane's knowing smile was aggravating, but he retreated without comment. When the door closed, Stephanie turned back to Marcus.

"We need to keep a low profile in public from now on, to keep off of Reed’s radar. But I’m still going with you to dinner tomorrow at Amara's.”

"I expect a full report on whatever she told you about me," Marcus said, grabbing his bag.

"Not a chance." Stephanie stepped closer, her voice dropping. "She showed me your baby pictures, by the way."

"She always deploys those for maximum tactical advantage." He shook his head.

Stephanie cut off his analysis with a sudden shift forward, rising onto her toes and pressing her lips to his.

The kiss was quick, but decisive—like a firecracker going off in a quiet lab. It short-circuited Marcus’s brain, disrupting the thread of logic mid-sentence. By the time he caught up to the sensation—soft lips, warm breath, the faint taste of cinnamon gum—his hand had already found her waist, steadying them both as instinct overrode calculation.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her face still so close he could feel the tickle of her breath brushing his skin. Her eyes searched his, steady, sure. “That’s for the win tonight,” she murmured. “And for having my back with Reed.”

He studied her like she was a formula he couldn’t quite solve. A flush bloomed along her cheekbones.

“This isn’t how professional allies typically celebrate a win,” he said, though his voice came out rougher than he intended—scraped raw by desire and something dangerously close to hope.

“I’m improvising.” Her smile was genuine this time, stripped of spin and strategy. Unscripted. “Problem?”

Marcus didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in and kissed her with intention. Slower. Deeper.

She responded without hesitation. Her body pressed against his, heat meeting heat, and the world around them narrowed to nothing but contact. Her mouth moved with his, confident but searching, and he felt his carefully ordered thoughts begin to unravel.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing harder.

“We should go,” she whispered, her voice unsteady as she stepped back, eyes still locked on his. “Kane will send a search party.”

Marcus nodded, forcing his hand to fall away from her waist. But as they walked toward the locker room door, her posture had changed. Subtle, but unmistakable. Less tension in her shoulders. A quiet ease in her stride. The armor she wore so well had cracked—just enough to let him see the woman beneath.

And that changed everything.

This wasn't just a shared mission anymore. It was trust. Connection. A shift in variables he hadn’t accounted for—one that couldn’t be graphed or predicted. But he didn’t want to walk it back.

As they stepped into the corridor, falling into a more measured distance for any curious eyes, Marcus felt the familiar ache of a hard-fought hockey win settle deep in his bones. But this time, it mingled with the warmth of Stephanie’s kiss and the dangerous thrill of wanting more.

For the first time since joining the Chill, the game wasn’t the most interesting thing in his life.

And for once, he didn’t need numbers to know that felt exactly right.