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Stephanie kept her expression neutral despite her churning stomach. "The organization values multiple perspectives. Marcus and I have found productive common ground."

"Marcus, is it?" Reed's eyebrows rose. "How collegiate. Though defensive specialists have always been your type."

The threat beneath his words was familiar. Stephanie stiffened her spine.

"Was there something specific you needed, Reed? I'm preparing for media coordination."

"Just a friendly warning." He leaned closer, voice dropping. "Adeyemi's work is being evaluated as we speak. Darby has concerns about his methodologies—too much emphasis on qualitative factors. Would be a shame if his approach was deemed obsolete."

Cold anger replaced her initial fear. The message was clear: Distance yourself from Marcus, or his career suffers. Just like he'd implied in his text about Chambers.

"If you're suggesting Marcus's work is anything less than exemplary," she replied evenly, "check his impact metrics over the past three seasons. His defensive systems reduced opposition scoring chances by 23% while increasing transition effectiveness by 18%." She let a sharp smile form. "But then, you always preferred manipulating data to actually understanding it."

Reed's expression hardened before smoothing back to practiced charm. "Always the fierce defender. That loyalty is admirable, if misplaced. Just remember what happened to your allies in Boston."

He disappeared into the press crowd. Stephanie unclenched her fists, steadying her breathing.

On the ice, the horn signaled the end of warmups. Marcus was the last to leave, his eyes scanning the press area until they found her. His gaze lingered, and she knew he could sense something was wrong, even from a distance—his analytical mind always tracking patterns, changes in behavior.

She gave him a small nod:I'm fine. Focus on the game.

He returned the nod before vanishing down the tunnel. Her phone buzzed almost immediately with a text.

Something happened. Telling me later is non-negotiable.

How could he read her so well from across an arena? Another text followed quickly.

More importantly: who was that man with you? Your body language changed completely.

Stephanie stared at the message. Of course Marcus wouldn't recognize Reed—they'd never met. But he'd noticed her reaction, cataloged it, identified the threat without knowing its source. It was exactly what made him such an effective defenseman. And now he was applying those skills to her.

Preston Reed. And yes, we'll talk. After the game. Play well.

She tucked her phone away, turning to her pre-game responsibilities, shoving Reed's threats aside. For the next three hours, nothing mattered but hockey. Personal concerns would wait.

But as she settled into her seat to watch the game, Stephanie realized something had fundamentally shifted. For the first time since Boston, she wasn't facing Reed's manipulation alone. That kiss in her office had changed more than just their relationship—it had changed how she approached this fight.

And watching Marcus take the ice for the opening faceoff, his focus absolute despite his concern for her, Stephanie felt something she hadn't experienced in years: the certainty that someone had her back.

Now she just had to make sure Reed didn't destroy him for it.

***

MARCUS

Third period, Chill trailing Toronto 2-1. Marcus wasn't superstitious like other players who touched the same posts or taped their sticks exactly the same way before each game. He trusted systems, not luck. Still, his eyes drifted to the press box where Stephanie sat, tablet in hand. Something had spooked her before the game—he'd caught it in the set of her shoulders, the tension around her eyes.

He still didn't know who the suit talking to her had been, but whoever it was had shifted her from professional to defensive in seconds flat.

"Head in the fucking game, Spreadsheets," Jax growled as they set up for a defensive zone faceoff. "You've been checking the press box all night. Save it for after we win this thing."

Marcus snapped back to the ice, tapping his stick sharply against Jax's shin pad—their silent acknowledgment. Game face on. He analyzed Toronto's formation, noting their top center's slight lean to the right. Kane lost the draw clean. The Leafs' top line cycled the puck with dangerous speed, their passes crisp and threatening.

Marcus tracked movement patterns, feeling the play develop before it happened. Every player had tendencies, habits they fell into under pressure. Toronto's star winger always looked high glove side before shooting low blocker. Their center telegraphed passes with his back shoulder. Little tells that most players missed, but Marcus cataloged like battlefield intelligence.

When the one-timer came screaming from the left circle, Marcus had already shifted into position. The puck slammed into his shin pad with a sickening crack that would leave a bruise the size of a grapefruit tomorrow. Pain shot up his leg, but he barely registered it—just another day at the office.

The puck bounced toward the neutral zone. Marcus recovered instantly, driving forward to beat Toronto's forward to the loose puck. He lowered his shoulder, knocked the guy off balance without drawing a penalty, and fired a hard breakout pass to Dmitri streaking up the right wing.

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