Page 45 of Bar Down

"Sorry," Stephanie said, shifting seamlessly to PR director mode, a professional smile sliding into place. "Monitoring player routines for media storylines."

"Uh-huh." Lauren smirked, her perfectly arched eyebrows rising. "And your monitoring requires staring at a certain number forty-seven for the past five minutes straight?"

Heat rushed to Stephanie's cheeks. Was she that transparent? "I wasn't—"

"Save it." Lauren grinned, bumping Stephanie's shoulder with her own. "Jax told me about your and Marcus working together. I'm just surprised it took this long for you two to figure it out."

"Figure what out?" Stephanie maintained her innocent expression, though the flutter in her chest betrayed her.

"That the reason you've been fighting like cats and dogs for a year is because you're crazy about each other."

Stephanie opened her mouth to deny it, then closed it again. There was no point pretending with Lauren, who had an uncanny ability to see through people's defenses. It was what made her such an effective liaison between the players' partners and the team—she could spot a lie from the owner's box.

"It's complicated," she said instead, fidgeting with the corner of her clipboard. "With the ownership transition—"

"It's always complicated," Lauren interrupted gently, her teasing tone softening. "That's relationships in hockey. But worth it."

Before Stephanie could respond, a commotion on the ice drew their attention. Marcus had collided with one of Toronto's forwards during a drill, sending both players crashing into the boards. The forward took exception, shoving Marcus as they disentangled.

Stephanie's body tensed without conscious command, her fingers gripping the railing as she watched the confrontation with more personal investment than she'd ever felt during previous on-ice incidents. Marcus simply squared up, saying something too quiet to hear that made the Toronto player back off immediately.

"He can handle himself," Lauren said softly, correctly reading Stephanie's concern.

"I know." Stephanie tried to regain her professional distance, to remember that she'd managed dozens of on-ice altercations without this twist of worry in her gut. "I just don't need a pre-game incident to manage."

"Right. That's definitely why your knuckles are white on the railing."

Stephanie released her grip, flexing fingers that had gone stiff, and shot Lauren a look. "Don't you have pre-game enforcer wifey duties to attend to?"

Lauren laughed, the sound warm and knowing. "I'm going. But Steph?" She paused at the press box door, her expression softening. "The team already considers you family. Dating one of the players just makes it official."

As Lauren left, Stephanie turned back to the ice, where Marcus was now working on penalty kill positioning with Jax. Dating. The word seemed inadequate for whatever was developing between them—a complex equation of professional alliance, mutual attraction, and something deeper she wasn't ready to name.

On the ice, Marcus glanced up toward the press box, his eyes finding hers with unerring accuracy. Even from a distance, the connection between them was electric, like a power play developing with perfect precision. He gave a barely perceptible nod before returning his attention to Coach Vicky's instructions.

That tiny acknowledgment shouldn't have affected her so strongly. Yet Stephanie's heart raced like she'd just sprinted the length of the arena, and warmth bloomed across her skin despite the arena's perpetual chill.

Her phone pinged with a group text. She glanced down, expecting a media update from Oliver.

Instead, her blood froze. The message had been sent to both her and Marcus from an unknown number:

Ten thousand dollars from each of you or the data goes public. Venmo it to this number.

A countdown clock appeared underneath the message. Sixty-one hours and fifty-two minutes until the deadline.

Stephanie's gaze snapped back to Marcus on the ice, just as his head jerked up. He must have received the text too. Their eyes locked, and even across the distance, she could see the tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes that most would miss.

The clock ticking on her carefully maintained professional boundaries suddenly felt even more urgent than the countdown on her phone.

***

MARCUS

The Chill's 4-2 victory over Toronto should have felt like a perfect defensive game. Marcus had broken up three odd-man rushes, blocked seven shots, and scored on a rocket from the point in the second period. Yet as he stood in the visitor's locker room, muscles aching and sweat cooling on his skin, his mind was scattered—something that hadn't happened since he was a nervous rookie.

His phone vibrated in his stall. Expecting a notification from the team's travel coordinator, he glanced down at the screen and froze.

An unknown number had sent a group text to both him and Stephanie:

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