Page 62 of Bar Down

She glanced at her watch again. Seven hours and twenty minutes until Reed's deadline. And now, finally, they had a fighting chance.

***

MARCUS

"WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"

Coach Vicky's voice bounced off the concrete walls of the locker room, making even Jax Thompson—all six-foot-four, two-hundred-forty pounds of him—flinch. Her face had progressed beyond red to a dangerous shade of purple.

"Seventeen goddamn shots against in ONE PERIOD!" She slammed a whiteboard marker against the tactical board so hard it snapped in half. "That's not hockey, that's a fucking shooting gallery!"

Marcus sat in his stall, sweat cooling uncomfortably on his skin as he removed his shin pads. The intermission clock showed fifteen minutes and counting. Fifteen minutes for Chenny to get the laptop. Fifteen minutes for the fate of their careers to be decided.

And while that played out, they were getting their asses handed to them by Coach.

"Where the FUCK is Chenofski?" Vicky rounded on Kane, as if the captain might have Chenny stashed under his jersey. "And where's his goddamn dog?"

No one answered. No one dared. They all knew Chenny was off somewhere using his computer skills on Reed's laptop, but none of them knew the why—only that Marcus had quietly asked them to cover for him if Coach asked.

Now, watching Vicky's vein throb in her forehead, Marcus realized he'd underestimated just how badly she'd react to the whole situation.

"First he loses his shit in a fight I've NEVER seen him start in three seasons, then he fucking disappears during intermission? With that suspension hanging over his head?" Vicky kicked an empty water bottle, sending it flying into the training room. "And you assholes are playing like you've never seen a forechecking scheme before!"

Marcus's guilt twisted deeper. He'd involved the team in his personal battle without fully considering the consequences. Chenny would face serious disciplinary action for his disappearance—possibly even a multi-game suspension if the league office got involved. All because Marcus had asked him to help.

"Dietrich's gonna be gunning for blood in the second," Vicky continued, pacing like a caged animal. "Their coach is probably in there telling them to finish every fucking check twice. And my best puck-moving defenseman just decided to take a fucking vacation!"

She whipped around, zeroing in on Marcus.

"Adeyemi. You're supposed to be the goddamn strategic genius. Tell me why our forecheck is getting shredded like wet toilet paper."

Every eye in the room turned to him. Marcus stood, his mind racing between the countdown to Reed's deadline and the tactical adjustments they needed to make.

"Their weak-side winger is cheating high," he said, keeping his voice level despite the tension thrumming through him. "Creates a three-on-two advantage on the strong side because our wingers are collapsing too deep."

He moved to the board, picking up the broken marker and sketching out the coverage adjustment. For these few minutes, he forced himself to focus solely on hockey analytics—the patterns and probabilities that had defined his career before Stephanie and Reed and blackmail had entered the equation.

"If we switch to an overload forecheck in the neutral zone, we can force them to the boards here." He circled a spot just beyond the blue line. "Their defensemen struggle with the quick transition. Stats show a forty-three percent drop in completed breakout passes when pressured from this angle."

Coach Vicky's fury didn't dissipate entirely, but her focus shifted to the board. "So we're conceding the middle to cut off the outlet?"

"Temporarily. Then we collapse back once possession is contested." Marcus drew the rotation. "Their forwards are on pace for nine high-danger chances this game. This adjustment cuts that projection to four."

The locker room fell silent except for the sound of equipment being adjusted and water bottles being squeezed. Marcus could feel every second ticking away—seconds Chenny needed for accessing the laptop, seconds Stephanie was up there with Reed.

"You're giving a lot of responsibility to our centers with this setup," Kane observed, studying the board.

"Because Columbus's centers have the worst turnover rate in the offensive zone," Marcus replied. "Sixty-seven percent when pressured from behind."

Vicky stared at the board for a long moment, then nodded sharply. "We'll try it. But—" she turned back to the team, fire still in her eyes, "—if I see ONE MORE lazy backcheck or missed assignment, I'm benching the whole goddamn line. We clear?"

A chorus of "Yes, Coach" echoed through the room.

"And somebody better find Chenofski before the third," she added, glaring at each player in turn. "Or I'll personally staple his ass to the bench for the next month."

As she stormed into the coach's room, the tension in the locker room eased by a fraction.

"Fuck," Jax muttered, pulling on his chest protector. "Haven't seen her that mad since that ref missed the high stick in Philly."

---