Page 15 of Bar Down

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 façade.

"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.”

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