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Now, as Stephanie packed her tablet and organized press materials into her leather portfolio, she mentally drafted damage control. The last thing this team needed was another round of "the robots are taking over hockey" coverage. Half the players already bristled at the suggestion that their instincts—honed through thousands of hours on ice—were being replaced by spreadsheets.

Perception mattered more than reality. That was the first lesson hockey had taught her when she'd joined the Chill three years ago after escaping a toxic crisis management firm in New York. Nobody in this organization needed to know about the anxiety medication tucked in her purse's inner pocket, or how she rehearsed critical conversations in her apartment mirror, or that she'd been passed over for PR director at two other teams before landing here.

Image was everything. Truth was malleable. And control? Non-negotiable.

"Ellis."

God, that voice. Deep, precise, and irritatingly confident. She'd know it anywhere. She turned to find Marcus standing in the doorway of the small media room, his leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Even after taking that bone-crushing hit in the third period—the one that had made her stomach clench despite herself—he looked frustratingly put-together. His reading glasses perched on his nose as he scrolled through something on his phone, probably calculating the statistical probability of her wanting to strangle him right now. (Answer: high. Very high.)

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice hitting that sweet spot between professional and don't-push-me that had taken years to perfect.

"Coach Vicky mentioned you have an issue with the analytics being mentioned in press conferences."

Of course he'd come straight at her. No small talk, no congratulations on the win, just zero to confrontation in three seconds flat.

"I don't have an issue with analytics," she replied, willing her eye not to twitch. "I have an issue with undermining team confidence by suggesting their success comes from following mathematical predictions rather than their own skill and chemistry."

"But that's not factually—"

"Marcus," she interrupted, using his first name deliberately, a small satisfaction flickering when she caught that micro-reaction—the slight widening of his eyes that told her she'd broken through his professional wall. "I know you live in a world where everything is black and white, true or false. But my job is managing perceptions, and perception requires nuance."

He frowned, adjusting his glasses in that way he did when processing information that didn't fit into one of his neat little boxes. She'd spent far too much time cataloging all of Marcus's tells—the slight tilt of his head when analyzing a statement, the barely perceptible narrowing of his eyes when he disagreed but was considering an alternate perspective. She read people the way he read numbers, and damn if that wasn't something they had in common.

"We executed based on observable patterns," he said. "That's simply what happened."

"And a year ago, when you weren't calculating everything on the bench, the team executed based on experience and instinct. Both are true." She closed her laptop with a decisive click. "I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to understand that how we talk about the team affects how they see themselves."

The sharpness in her voice slipped—a rare crack in her professional veneer. She'd spent the entire day putting out fires: Chenny's controversial social media post that needed containment, a potentially damaging story about Jax's previous team that a reporter was fishing for, and Rookie Ethan's nervous stumble in a pre-game interview that required damage control.

And now here was Marcus, with his perfect posture and even more perfect jawline, undermining her carefully constructed narratives like he was pointing out a simple calculation error.

"So we should prioritize feelings over facts?" he asked, and the infuriating thing was that he sounded genuinely curious rather than condescending.

Stephanie let her professional mask slip just enough to show she was a human, not a PR robot. "We should recognize that feelingsarefacts in human psychology." She shouldered her bag and moved toward the door.

He didn't step aside. Of course he didn't. Which forced her to stop close enough to catch the faint scent of his aftershave—something clean and subtle with notes of cedar that definitely wasn't helping her irritation.

For a moment, neither spoke. The arena had gone quiet around them, most of the staff and media having departed. It was just them in the empty room, and the sudden awareness of that fact made her pulse pick up in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with his broad shoulders or the intensity in his dark eyes behind those glasses.

In these unguarded moments, she sometimes caught glimpses of something beneath Marcus's analytical exterior—something that made her wonder what he was like away from the rink, away from the numbers and systems. What made him laugh? Did he ever just watch a movie without analyzing the plot structure? These thoughts were dangerous, unprofessional, and thoroughly unwelcome.

And yet.

"You don't need to protect the players from reality," Marcus finally said, his voice quieter than before.

"Maybe not," she conceded. "But have you considered that your reality isn't the only one that matters?"

Something flickered in his eyes—a brief vulnerability that vanished so quickly she might have imagined it. For a second, she wondered if she'd hit a nerve she hadn't meant to find.

He stepped aside, finally allowing her to pass.

"Good night, Ellis."

"Night, Spreadsheets," she replied, the team nickname slipping out before she could stop it.

As she walked toward the parking garage, her heels clicking a defiant rhythm on the concrete, Stephanie tried to shake off the lingering tension from their encounter. She'd definitely need a glass of wine tonight—the expensive Cabernet she saved for days when someone tested her last nerve.

Marcus was infuriating, rigid, and completely blind to the human elements that made sports more than just statistics on a spreadsheet.

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