Page 6 of Bar Down

Westfield's eyes locked directly on Marcus. "Mr. Adeyemi, your player development metrics have caught our attention. We'd like to expand your role to include performance analytics across all operations."

Marcus felt Stephanie tense beside him, like a goalie spotting a breakaway. This was the source of her concern. Under the table, her thigh pressed briefly against his—an accidental touch that sent heat racing up his leg.

"Under the new structure," Westfield continued, "we'll be implementing a more integrated approach between departments. Analytics will inform all aspects of our operation—from player development to public relations."

And there it was. The battle between numbers and narrative that had defined their relationship was now becoming an organizational mandate. No wonder she wanted a unified front.

The rest of the meeting blurred into corporate speak and vague promises. Players shifted in their seats, coaches exchanged glances, and front office staff frantically scribbled notes. Through it all, Marcus stayed locked on Stephanie beside him, her composure never breaking even as her entire department's approach was essentially being challenged.

As the meeting wrapped, Montgomery pulled Coach Vicky aside while players began filing out, their usual chatter subdued. Marcus gathered his notes, already reading the developing play on this unfamiliar ice.

"Conference room B, five minutes," Stephanie whispered, her voice for his ears only. Her breath brushed his ear, sending an unexpected rush down his spine. "You, me, and coffee that isn't from the café."

He glanced at her, surprised by the invitation. "Why?"

Her professional smile held something fierce underneath. "Because like it or not, Spreadsheets, we've just been forced onto the same penalty kill. And we need a game plan before Darby & Darby runs our organization into the boards."

The hockey metaphor hit home. Even more surprising was the way her eyes dropped to his mouth before darting away. Marcus nodded. "Five minutes."

As she walked away, intercepting several panicked staff members with calm reassurance, Marcus considered the new dynamic. Working directly with Stephanie Ellis would be like sharing a line with a player whose style completely contradicted his own—high risk, high reward, and guaranteed to keep him on his toes.

So why did the prospect feel like the rush before a big game rather than dread? And why was he suddenly tracking the sway of her hips as she walked away?

***

STEPHANIE

Stephanie had exactly four minutes to have a minor panic attack before meeting with Marcus.

She locked herself in the executive bathroom, pressed her palms flat against the cool marble counter, and stared at her reflection. "Keep it together," she whispered to herself. "This is just another crisis to manage."

But it wasn't. Darby & Darby was infamous in sports circles for their ruthless approach to "optimization." They were venture capitalists, not hockey people—buying up teams as investment properties, not passion projects. Their last three acquisitions had seen traditional hockey operations gutted and rebuilt around data-mining and revenue streams. Media and PR departments were always first on the chopping block.

In other words, everything she fought against in her daily battles with Marcus was about to become company doctrine—but with a cruel twist that even Marcus wouldn't appreciate. Darby & Darby didn't care about hockey or player development; they cared about extractable value.

Stephanie reapplied her lipstick with steady hands despite her internal turmoil. Never let them see you sweat—the first rule her mentor had taught her in crisis management. She straightened her blazer, checked her ponytail, and took one deep, centering breath.

Time to strategize with the enemy. The enemy with shoulders broad enough to fill out a suit jacket to perfection. The enemy whose dark eyes behind those reading glasses had been haunting her thoughts for longer than she cared to admit.

Conference room B was smaller and more private than the main meeting space. When she entered, Marcus was already there, two coffee cups from her favorite local roaster on the table. She paused, caught off guard by the thoughtful gesture.

"You went to Chesapeake Coffee?"

He shrugged, pushing one cup toward her side of the table. "You get their medium roast with room for cream practically every game day. Hard not to notice."

She should have found it creepy that he'd tracked her coffee habits. Instead, she felt an unwelcome flutter low in her belly. "You've been charting my coffee preferences? That's not stalker-ish at all."

"I pick up on patterns." He said it matter-of-factly, without apology. "Same way I read plays on the ice."

"What else have you... noticed about me?" she asked before she could stop herself, a dangerous edge to her voice.

His eyes met hers, something shifting in their dark depths. "That'd be crossing the blue line."

The implication sent heat crawling up her neck. Stephanie took the seat across from him, adding cream to her coffee. "Well, thanks for the caffeine. I needed this after that ambush."

For a moment, they sat in tense silence, both processing the morning's bombshell.

"You knew this was coming," Marcus finally said. Not a question, an observation.

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