Page 10 of Bar Down

Kane nodded, unsurprised. "Kitchen's stocked. And Spreadsheets?" His captain's voice took on the serious tone reserved for third period pep talks. "We're counting on you tonight. When we talk about this ownership thing, the guys need straight facts, not corporate bullshit."

Marcus nodded, understanding the responsibility. "Got it all here," he tapped his temple. "The good, bad, and ugly."

"Good man." Kane moved away to greet newly arriving teammates.

In the kitchen, Marcus grabbed some water and took a moment to watch the gathering through the window. These people were more than teammates and colleagues—they'd become something he'd never expected when he'd been traded to New Haven four years ago: a tribe. Even with his numbers obsession and quiet nature, they'd made room for him, nicknamed him "Spreadsheets" with the same rough affection they gave all their brothers on the ice.

It had been unexpected. And weirdly important.

His phone buzzed with a text from his sister.Mum saw the news about the team. Everything okay?

Marcus typed quickly.Still figuring it out. Will call tomorrow.

Three dots appeared immediately.Don't overthink it. And please tell me you're actually at Kane's party and not breaking down game film alone in your apartment.

His sister Amara always cut straight to the point. And she knew his habits too well.

At the party. Will call tomorrow.

Proud of you, brother.

Marcus slipped his phone back into his pocket, hit with a sudden pang for Toronto, where he'd grown up. His father, a mathematics professor at the University of Toronto, had given him both the love of numbers and hockey—two passions that shouldn't fit together but somehow shaped everything he was.

"There you are."

He turned to find Stephanie in the doorway, two empty glasses in hand. The sight of her—relaxed, cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire pit—caught him off guard.

"Kane said you were hiding in here." She approached the counter, setting down the glasses. "Strategic retreat or scouting mission?"

"Grabbing water," he replied, holding up his bottle. "And getting my head straight."

She nodded, understanding in her eyes. "It's a lot to take in. The team's worried."

"Darby & Darby's last three teams saw major changes within a year."

"Always looking on the bright side." She reached past him for the wine bottle, her arm brushing his. The brief contact hit him like an unexpected hip check. "But this is why we need our alliance. Your brutal honesty, my damage control."

"Is that what you call it?"

A smile tugged at her lips as she poured wine into both glasses. "Among other things." She offered him one of the glasses. "Just this once, Spreadsheets. For team solidarity."

Marcus hesitated. He rarely drank during season, but sharing a drink meant something. He accepted the glass.

"To unlikely alliances," she said, raising her glass.

"To beating the odds," he countered, clinking his glass against hers.

Their eyes met over the rims, and for a moment, something shifted between them. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving his, and he noticed things he usually tried to ignore—the exact shade of amber in her eyes, the way her hair fell across her shoulder, the small scar near her left eyebrow he'd never spotted before.

His mind flashed back to their first major showdown eleven months ago in the media room after a tough loss to Pittsburgh. She'd torn into him for telling a reporter that the defensive coverage had "all the right positioning but guys just didn't execute." She'd been fierce, eyes flashing with that same amber fire they held now, but for entirely different reasons.

"Stephanie!" Dmitri's voice boomed from the doorway, breaking the moment. "Kane says team meeting in five minutes. We need PR wizard and numbers man both."

Stephanie broke eye contact, her professional mask sliding back into place. "We'll be right there."

As Dmitri left, she turned back to Marcus. "Ready to face the firing squad?"

"They're not the enemy."

---