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Chapter Nineteen

Stephanie

The rink always looked different in the morning—less sharp, a little softer around the edges. The floodlights hadn’t fully brightened yet, leaving the ice tinted gray instead of its usual showtime shine. It was a behind-the-scenes kind of morning. Exactly what they all needed.

Stephanie sat in the bleachers, hands wrapped around a paper cup that had long gone cold. Her scarf was still looped loosely around her neck, coat open. She hadn’t rushed to get dressed properly today. After last night, she was still inside the afterglow—sore in the best ways, hollowed out in the best ways.

She’d woken up tangled in Marcus, his hand still on her hip like he’d anchored himself to her in his sleep.

They hadn’t said much this morning. They didn’t need to.

But when she told him she was going to the arena, he’d just nodded and said,“I’ll meet you on the ice.”Like they were a team. Like they had a plan.

And now she watched him skating backward through a penalty kill drill, calling out adjustments to Dmitri with that sharp focus he carried like a second skin. From up here, he looked relaxed. Confident.

She smiled without meaning to.

A door slammed.

She turned her head toward the sound, instinct prickling just behind her collarbone.

Four uniformed officers entered the rink from the players’ tunnel. For a second, no one reacted. The squeak of blades on ice continued. Then one of the officers held up a photo and spoke, voice raised to carry across the glass.

One of them stepped forward, holding a photo. “We’re looking for Marcus Adeyemi.”

It took a beat for the room to register it. Then everything slowed.

Coach Vicky skated toward them hard and fast, her whistle already around her fingers. “This is a closed practice. You can’t just walk in here—”

“We have a warrant. Assault. We need Mr. Adeyemi to come with us.”

Stephanie stood, legs suddenly heavy. Her breath caught, not in panic, but in calculation. This was bad. This was public. And this was exactly what Reed had wanted.

Kane skated toward Marcus fast, already speaking low and sharp. Dmitri peeled off his circle and joined them. The team was closing ranks.

One of the officers—hand resting on his belt—took a step toward him.

Stephanie moved.

She didn’t run. She walked, coat flaring around her legs as she stepped through the gate at the side of the rink and onto the ice in her flat-soled boots. The cold bit through the leather, but she didn’t slow down.

She raised her voice once she reached the officers.

“That won’t be necessary. Mr. Adeyemi will comply voluntarily. But you’re not cuffing him in front of his teammates, or the arena’s security cameras, unless you want this on TMZ by lunch.”

The officer closest to her looked up, confused.

“I’m Stephanie Ellis. Director of Communications for the Chill. I’ll contact our legal counsel, and the league’s executive office. You can walk him out, but you’ll do it with respect and discretion.”

She turned to Marcus who had approached them during all of this. He nodded. Quiet. Calm. And Stephanie wanted to scream, because he shouldn’t have to carry this weight—especially not when he’d been provoked. But the cameras didn’t care. The public didn’t care.

He didn’t speak, just touched her hand lightly. A signal. I’m okay. I’ll go.

Stephanie’s jaw locked, but she nodded. “Let me handle it.”

“I know you will.”

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