Page 69 of Bar Down

Marcus nodded, but the calculus had shifted. He didn’t just want to react anymore. He wanted to beat Reed at his own game.

Decisively.

Chenny let out a bitter laugh. “Fuck this. I’m out.” And with that, he turned and with Charlie loping along next to him, strode out the front door into the cold night.

Marcus stared at the table. At the water ring forming around his glass. At nothing, really.

The Rusty Blade’s lights felt too warm. The music too loud. He could hear the muffled sound of Kane yelling “bullseye!” like the world was still turning the way it always had.

But something in Marcus had shifted.

Reed hadn’t won.

But he’d scored. And now Marcus wanted nothing more than to take the puck right back.

***

STEPHANIE

The air inside The Rusty Blade had shifted.

Stephanie felt it before she saw them—like a drop in barometric pressure, the moment before a storm breaks.

She followed Marcus’s gaze across the room.

Reed.

His entourage included Coach Vicky, Westlake, and two Darby execs in slim-cut suits and forced grins, he entered like a man arriving to accept an award. Perfect posture, smug half-smile, not a hair out of place. The room didn’t go silent, but it tensed around the edges—shoulders tightened, drinks paused midair, conversations momentarily derailed.

Stephanie’s stomach turned, slow and sour.

Marcus clenched his jaw. One hand curled into a fist against the table, the knuckles flexing, then locking tight.

“Don’t,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the music. She reached across the booth, her hand resting on his arm. His bicep was taut under her fingers. “He’s not worth it.”

Marcus didn’t look away. “He thinks he’s won. He thinks we’re going to lose.”

Her grip tightened slightly. “We’re not. He can’t hurt us with his blackmail anymore.”

He was still watching Reed like a tracking algorithm. But he didn’t move. “He can still hurt us.”

Then Reed turned—and made a direct line toward their booth.

No hesitation.

No shame.

Just pure provocation, gift-wrapped in polished shoes and a ten-thousand-dollar smile.

“Marcus,” he drawled, stopping beside the table. “Nice game tonight. Shame about the Chenofski. Though I suppose every team needs a sacrificial lamb.”

Stephanie stiffened beside Marcus. She could feel the shift in him—like a cable pulled too tight. “Dietritch deserved it.”

Reed turned to her, all oily charm. “In the end, it all worked out.” His hand moved—light, barely there—as if to touch her shoulder. She tried not to flinch away. But Marcus saw the slight movement. And that was it.

He shot to his feet.

Stephanie barely had time to blink before his fist connected.

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