Page 65 of Bar Down

She located the closet and found the laptop precisely where Chenny had promised. As she picked it up, the weight of what they were doing—hacking, corporate espionage, potentially career-ending ethical violations—settled on her shoulders. Yet she couldn't bring herself to regret it. Not when Reed had made it clear he would destroy them without hesitation.

Stephanie glanced back toward the suite, making sure no one had followed her. Then, laptop in hand, she went in search of the extra champagne. She’d hide the laptop in the box and carry it into the suite and while the server poured the drinks, she’d find a way to slip the laptop back into the case when Reed wasn’t looking.

***

MARCUS

The win felt like a technicality.

Marcus sat in front of his locker, unwrapping the tape from his stick with methodical precision. Every tug echoed too loudly in the subdued space. No music blasted from the speakers. No one chirped Dmitri for his missed open net or razzed Ethan for his offside blunder in the third. Even Kane’s usual post-game whoop was conspicuously absent.

Across the room, Liam peeled off his pads in slow, deliberate motions, sweat still clinging to his jawline. His brow furrowed as he studied the floor like it might explain how they’d almost lost this one.

“Ugly as sin,” Noah muttered, flexing one knee and grimacing as something popped. “But still a W.”

“Barely.” Mateo leaned back on the bench, already thumbing through Instagram with a forced smile. “We win like that in the playoffs, we’re going home early.”

Dmitri let out a snort, tossing his helmet into his bag with a little more force than necessary. “Win is win,” he said, his Russian accent thickening. “You want beauty contest, go figure skating.”

“Tell that to Chenny,” Ethan blurted out, then looked instantly regretful.

The room fell a little quieter.

Marcus glanced at the empty stall next to Jax’s. Chenny and his dog Charlie’s absence loomed louder than anything else. No tap-tap-tap of his sticks on the floor. No sarcastic one-liners. Just a folded towel where his jersey should’ve been. Coach Vicky sent him home and fined him a few grand. Marcus had already Venmo’d him the money.

When Vicky entered with an iPad in hand, everyone went silent. “League ruling’s in. Three-game suspension. No appeal.”

A low curse rolled out from Jax.

Kane’s head dropped, and he muttered something under his breath that Marcus couldn’t hear but could guess.

“Dietrich deserved it,” Dmitri growled, pacing now. “That goon milked it.”

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

“I’m not going to waste breath rehashing what you all saw out there,” she said, scanning the room. Her hazel eyes paused—too long—on Marcus, and the skin on the back of his neck prickled. “But if we keep playing like we’ve got one eye on a soap opera and the other on the jumbotron, it won’t matter what our record is. We’ll be out before we even hit Round One.”

No one answered. No one dared.

She turned, her voice dropping to a quieter, more dangerous register. “I don’t care what’s happening with consultants or contracts or who threw the last punch. I care what happens between the blue lines. Clean it up.”

And just like that, she walked out. The door thudded closed behind her.

Marcus stared down at the tape in his hands, now a loose, crumpled mess.

They’d won.

And yet, somehow, it felt like they were already losing.

He was halfway through unlacing his skates when he realized half the room was watching him.

It started with Jax, sitting two lockers down, arms crossed over his chest like a human wall. Then Kane turned, curiosity written all over his face. Dmitri leaned forward, elbows on his knees, green eyes sharp with something that looked almost like hope.

Even Ethan, who’d been staring into space since the suspension was announced, finally looked up.

Marcus sighed, tugged off his left skate, and met Kane’s gaze head-on. “Just ask.”

“What happened?” Kane asked. “With Reed. With Chenny. With all of it.”

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