Page 70 of Bar Down

Thecrackof knuckles on jawbone echoed louder than the jukebox.

Reed staggered back, eyes wide, a hand to his face.

Chaos erupted.

Chairs scraped. Voices shouted. A bottle hit the floor and rolled. Someone—maybe Kane—snarled,“Oh fuck.”

Security swarmed. Westlake’s voice cut through the din, furious and shrill. “Is this your idea of professionalism? Assault in a public venue?”

Reed, already upright, blood at the corner of his lip, pointed with theatrical flair. “I’m pressing charges.”

Marcus hit him again and down he went.

Stephanie stood frozen, her mind whirring like a jammed camera lens. She saw it all, every angle—witnesses, lighting, optics—but none of it mattered. This wasn’t something she could spin.

This wasn’t a misquote or a viral video or a lapse in judgment during an Instagram Live.

This was a fight. In public. On record.

And it was Marcus.

Coach Vicky pushed her way between Reed and Dmitri while Stephanie just gaped like a fish. She took one look at Reed’s bruised mouth, then at Marcus, who stood rooted, breathing hard but not speaking.

“This is outrageous,” Westlake snapped. “These men are animals.”

Vicky didn’t blink. “I call that a consultant who couldn’t keep his hands to himself getting what he asked for.”

Stephanie put a hand to her throat. Vicky noticed. She knew. Stephanie resisted the urge to kick Reed as he staggered to his feet.

“Your player just punched someone in front of a room full of witnesses,” Westlake said.

“Yourcontractorhas been shooting his mouth off for weeks,” she replied coolly. “Marcus got hot. It happens. You want to fire your top defenseman in the middle of a playoff run because some jackass provoked him?”

Stephanie should’ve said something. She should’ve stepped in, soothed things, redirected the narrative. But for the first time in her career, she had no words. She stood there beside Marcus, mute and useless, watching everything unravel in real time.

Westlake didn’t press further, but the look he gave Marcus could’ve sliced diamonds.

“Consider yourself on thin ice, Adeyemi,” he said. “One more outburst, and you’re done.”

He turned and stalked out of the bar.

Reed followed, dabbing at his lip with a linen napkin like he was in a courtroom drama.

Vicky gave them both a long, narrow stare, then turned to Marcus and Stephanie. “Next time, take it outside.”

Then she was gone too.

Just like that.

Stephanie exhaled, shaky and slow. Her hands still trembled, though she couldn’t remember when she’d started shaking.

Marcus turned to her, his expression unreadable. Controlled. But she saw the edges—anger, regret, something deeper and darker underneath.

“I let him bait me,” he said quietly. “I gave him exactly what he wanted.”

She looked at him—really looked—and saw a man who didn’t regret the punch, but regretted what it cost. To his control. To his principles. Potentially to his team.

“No,” she said. Her voice was steadier than she expected. “He wanted this. So when the information he still thinks he has goes live, he’s got more ammunition. He’s got nothing now.”

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