Page 2 of Bar Down

Charlie, Oliver's gentle pit bull service dog, wagged his tail with enthusiasm. The dog's presence was a recent but welcome addition to home games, his calming effect on Oliver having translated to better play since the winger met the dog last season when Jax's wife Lauren had arranged for a meet and greet.

"Enough," Coach said, claiming the room's attention. "Good win tonight. Boston's a tough team, and you executed when it mattered." Her sharp eyes found Marcus. "Adeyemi, solid defensive game. Three blocked shots, and that outlet pass in the second was textbook."

"Thanks, Coach." He nodded, the words hitting him in a sweet spot. He might analyze everything, but praise still felt good.

She nodded, then addressed the team. "Recovery practice at eleven tomorrow. Media obligations first, then ice time." Her gaze swept the room. "And somebody remind Ellis that I need to approve her press releases before they go out, not after. That 'intuitive chemistry' line sounds too stuffy."

As if summoned by her name, Stephanie appeared in the doorway, scanning the locker room. Her eyes landed briefly on Marcus, lingered a beat too long, then moved to Coach Vicky. The familiar kick in his pulse was immediate and frustrating.

"The New Haven Register wants five minutes with you," Stephanie said. "They're asking about the decision to pair Ethan and Jax on the penalty kill."

"Tell them it was based on matchups," Coach replied.

Marcus bit the inside of his cheek, then spoke up. "Actually, the data shows Jax's reach percentage combined with Ethan's—"

"It was based on matchups," Coach Vicky repeated firmly, giving him a pointed look.

Stephanie smiled, her professional mask firmly in place. "Matchups it is." But there was a flash of something in her eyes when they met his—a silent challenge that hit him like a body check.

"The eternal battle between numbers and narratives continues," he muttered.

Mateo Suarez, fresh from the shower and already checking his own social media, laughed. "My money's on Ellis. She's got that fire."

"I don't know," Kane said thoughtfully. "Spreadsheets doesn't back down easily." The captain turned to Marcus. "You two have been at this since last season. Ever thought about just asking her out instead of arguing all the time?"

The locker room erupted in another round of laughter. Marcus kept his expression neutral despite the heat crawling up his neck. His teammates had picked up on something he'd been trying to ignore for months.

"Our professional disagreements aren't sublimated attraction," he said, pulling his post-game suit from his locker. But even as he said it, he knew the data suggested otherwise.

"Big words, Spreadsheets," Jax teased. "But the tape don't lie. You watch her more than you watch game film."

Marcus gathered his belongings, eager to escape before his face betrayed him further. "I have video to review."

As he headed to the showers, he tried to focus on the defensive adjustments he wanted to implement for their next game. But his mind kept returning to Stephanie—the flash of gold in her eyes when she was frustrated, the precise angle of her jawline, and the way her voice pitched slightly lower when she was arguing with him specifically. He'd cataloged these details involuntarily, stored them away like game footage he couldn't stop rewatching.

Some patterns were harder to ignore than others. And Stephanie Ellis was becoming a pattern he couldn't break.

***

STEPHANIE

Stephanie Ellis was having a good night until Marcus Adeyemi ruined it. Again.

She navigated the post-game chaos with the practiced confidence of someone who'd made a career out of walking through minefields in four-inch heels. Media vultures circled, players celebrated, and she was in her element—the conductor of this beautiful chaos. Every gesture was a deliberate note in her symphony—a smile here, a subtle redirection there. No one needed to know she'd memorized three potential responses for every possible question thrown at her team tonight.

Her dark hair swung as she pivoted between conversations, the expensive cut worth every penny of the maintenance it required every three weeks. In the hockey world, men might get away with looking like they'd just rolled out of bed, but women like her had to be flawless just to get a seat at the table. The charcoal pencil dress with subtle accents in team colors was her game-day armor—powerful enough to command respect, neutral enough to fade into the background when needed.

The post-game press conference had been textbook perfect. Coach Vicky had stuck to the talking points Stephanie had drilled into her head. Kane had turned on the charm like the media darling he was. Even rookie Ethan had managed not to say anything that would trend on Twitter for the wrong reasons. Her chess pieces were all moving exactly as planned.

Then a reporter from The Athletic had to ask about the game-winning play.

"Was that set piece something you'd practiced specifically for Boston's defense?"

And there he was—Marcus freaking Adeyemi—materializing at the back of the room like a perfectly dressed ghost, his charcoal suit without a single wrinkle despite the fact he'd just spent three periods getting slammed into boards. One look exchanged with Coach Vicky, and suddenly the entire narrative Stephanie had crafted went up in smoke.

"One of our players identified a pattern in Boston's defensive coverage," Coach had said. "We had the numbers to back up what we were seeing on the ice."

Numbers. Analytics.Math. There went tomorrow's feel-good story about team chemistry and hard work.

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