Page 9 of Bar Down

"Dream team," she said dryly.

But as they parted ways in the corridor, Stephanie couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had shifted between them. For better or worse, Marcus was now her ally in the corporate storm brewing around them.

And she had absolutely no data to predict where that might lead. Or why, when he'd looked at her a certain way, her professional concerns had momentarily taken a backseat to wondering what those strong hands would feel like on her body instead of a hockey stick.

Chapter Three

Marcus

Marcus was always more at home on the ice than at parties. On the ice, everything made sense—the flow of the game, defensive positioning, scoring chances. At parties, people moved unpredictably, conversations jumped around, and the unspoken social rules changed without warning.

He parked his Volvo hybrid (chosen for its safety ratings and understated design) on the street outside Kane's sprawling waterfront home. The captain's place had become the team's unofficial gathering spot—partly because of his natural leadership, partly because his girlfriend Allison treated the team like her own personal fan club.

Marcus checked his watch. Eight-fifteen. Fifteen minutes after the stated start time but still early enough that the gathering wouldn't be packed. The sweet spot for picking up information without getting trapped in too many conversations.

He grabbed the six-pack of craft beer from his passenger seat—a locker room tradition he'd learned to follow, though he'd stick to water. Alcohol messed with recovery, and they had a brutal stretch of games ahead.

As he approached the front door, he ran through defensive zone clearances in his head—a routine that settled his nerves before social situations. Four years with the Chill, and he still needed these mental prep drills.

Before he could knock, the door swung open. Kane stood there with his trademark crooked grin, dressed casually in jeans and a Chill hoodie.

"Spreadsheets arrives! Right on time." Kane clapped him on the shoulder. "Though I'm still not convinced you don't actually live in the practice facility."

"Not enough hot water pressure," Marcus replied. "And the beds are terrible."

Kane laughed, taking the beer. "There it is. Come on in, most of the guys are here. Stephanie is holding court by the fire pit."

Marcus followed Kane through the house, automatically clocking who was where. Kane’s wife Allison and Jax’s wife Lauren chatted in the corner, laughing over filled margarita glasses. Chenny and Mateo huddled in a corner, phones out, probably arguing about Instagram stats. Rookies clustered near the food like fourth-liners waiting for ice time. Coach Vicky hadn't shown yet—she usually made quick appearances at these things, just enough to show support without making the guys feel watched.

And then he spotted Stephanie on the back deck, talking with a few women he’d seen around after the games. She'd changed from her work clothes into dark jeans and a cream-colored sweater that softened her usual game-face look. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, catching the golden light from the fire pit.

Something tightened in Marcus's chest—a reaction he'd been getting more and more whenever Stephanie walked into a room.

"Beer?" Kane offered, breaking into his thoughts.

"Water's fine."

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