Page 25 of Bar Down

"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."

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