Page 21 of Bar Down

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.

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