The Last Trade (The Black Tape Duet #1)

CHAPTER 1

MAREN

The gray slush of a Portland winter is actively trying to ruin my shoes.

I stand next to my rental car in the VIP parking lot of the arena, holding a tissue, carefully wiping a mixture of dirty snow and road salt off the heel of a four-hundred-dollar leather pump. I toss the damp tissue into a nearby trash can, adjust the collar of my wool coat, and straighten my spine.

The coat is armor. The shoes are armor. The severe cut of my blazer is armor.

I need all of it today.

It has been exactly two years since I last set foot inside a professional sports facility.

Two years since a client in New York smiled for the cameras, lied through his teeth, and used my name as a shield to cover his own crimes.

I lost my agency, my reputation, and my tolerance for athletes in a single afternoon.

I made a rule that day: no more sports PR. Stick to corporate tech and politicians. They lie too, but at least they do it in suits.

But the Portland Kodiaks offered a contract large enough to fund the independent crisis management firm I have been trying to launch for eighteen months. I need the capital. They need a miracle.

I walk toward the executive entrance. The automatic doors slide open, replacing the biting January wind with the hum of central heating and the faint, permanent smell of floor wax.

Ten minutes later, I am sitting across from Marcus Thorne.

The General Manager of the Kodiaks wears a custom navy suit and a watch that costs more than my first car. His office overlooks the practice ice, a massive sheet of white glaring under the industrial lights.

"Grant Evans is a liability," Thorne says, leaning back in his leather chair.

He doesn't sound angry. He sounds bored, which is infinitely more dangerous.

"He is twenty-three years old, he has a multimillion-dollar contract, and a video of him at an unauthorized VIP party just hit the internet.

He is holding a bottle of vodka that directly competes with our primary beverage sponsor, and he is violating the morality clause of his contract. "

I keep my posture perfectly straight, my hands folded over the legal pad on my lap. "The video is already circulating on three major sports blogs. The optics are terrible, but it is a recoverable offense. It is immaturity, not a felony."

"I don't pay you to tell me it's recoverable, Ms. Whitaker.

I pay you to recover it." Thorne steeples his fingers.

"The league office is breathing down my neck.

The sponsors are threatening to pull funding.

I want the kid disciplined, and I want the narrative shifted by the end of the week. Do whatever you have to do."

"If I take control of this narrative, I do it my way," I say, keeping my voice even and precise. "I need full access to the roster. No closed doors. No players skipping media training because they think they are above the protocol."

Thorne smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "You have full access. But let me give you a piece of advice. The executive floor and the locker room are two different worlds. Down there, they don't care about your protocols. They protect their own."

"I am not asking for their permission," I say. I stand up, buttoning the center button of my blazer. "I will start with Evans today."

"Good luck," Thorne says, turning his attention back to his computer monitor.

I leave the office and walk toward the elevator. I press the button for the ground level. The descent takes exactly twelve seconds. When the doors open, the shift in atmosphere is immediate.

The thick corporate carpet gives way to black rubber flooring. The temperature drops at least ten degrees. The air down here doesn't smell like expensive cologne and floor wax. It smells like sharp ammonia, cold rubber, and stale sweat.

I walk down the concrete tunnel. My heels click against the floor, a sharp, rhythmic sound that echoes off the cinderblock walls.

Practice just ended. A few players are lingering in the hallway outside the locker room, still half-dressed in their gear, holding sticks and water bottles. They are massive men, built for violence and speed.

The moment they hear my heels, the conversation stops.

Four pairs of eyes lock onto me. The hostility is a physical weight in the air. They know exactly who I am. In their world, a PR crisis manager is the enemy. I am the person who tells them what they can't say, where they can't go, and how much money they are going to lose.

I don't break stride. I keep my chin level and my expression completely blank.

"I am looking for Grant Evans," I say to the group at large.

Nobody moves. Nobody answers. A young guy with a bruised jaw looks away, suddenly very interested in the tape on his stick.

"I can check the schedule," I continue, my voice calm, "but I am fairly certain he hasn't been traded in the last ten minutes. Where is he?"

"He's busy."

The voice comes from my left. It is low, rough, and carries a quiet authority that instantly shifts the gravity in the hallway.

A man steps out of the open doorway of the medical room, effectively blocking my path.

Bennett Hayes.

I read his file twice on the flight from New York. Thirty-three years old. Team captain. Veteran defenseman. He has spent his entire career in Portland, carrying a struggling franchise on his back.

The file did not adequately prepare me for the sheer size of him in person.

He is wearing dark gray workout shorts and a long-sleeved black compression shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders. The fabric is damp with sweat. He holds a roll of black friction tape in his left hand.

He doesn't look like an arrogant, reckless kid. He looks like a man who calculates the exact weight of everything around him before he moves.

I stop two feet away from him. It is closer than I would normally stand to a stranger, but taking a step back would be a concession of power. I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes.

"Busy doing what?" I ask.

"Being part of a team," Hayes says. His expression is completely flat. He pulls a short strip of the black tape loose, tearing it with his thumb, and wraps it around his index finger. It is a small, methodical movement. "You're in the wrong hallway."

"I am exactly where I need to be," I reply, holding his gaze. "Maren Whitaker. Crisis management."

"I know who you are." He drops the roll of tape into his pocket. "We don't need management."

"Your rookie's face on the front page of every sports outlet this morning says otherwise."

Hayes shifts his weight. I notice a slight stiffness in his right shoulder, a microscopic hesitation in the way he moves his arm, but it is gone before I can analyze it.

"Evans made a mistake," Hayes says, his voice dropping a fraction of an inch. "We handle our own mistakes."

"You play hockey, Mr. Hayes. You don't handle PR.

" I adjust the strap of my leather bag, keeping my movements deliberate.

"The video shows a breach of contract. It shows a direct conflict with a major sponsor.

The league is involved. This isn't something you can fix by making him skate extra laps at practice. "

"And you think you can fix it by putting him in front of a camera and making him read an apology he didn't write?"

"I think I can fix it by controlling the exposure," I say. "Which requires Evans to be in my office in fifteen minutes."

Hayes doesn't move. He is a wall of muscle and quiet defiance. The hallway is completely silent now. The other players are watching us, waiting to see who breaks first.

I realize, with a sudden spike of clarity, that Bennett Hayes is not trying to intimidate me for the sake of his ego. He is protecting his player. He is standing between the corporate executioner and his rookie.

It is an admirable trait. It is also a massive liability.

"The locker room is closed to front-office staff," Hayes says smoothly.

"Not anymore." I step forward, closing the distance between us to a matter of inches.

I can feel the cold radiating off his skin, mixed with the heat of his recent workout.

"My contract overrides your locker room rules.

I have full access to this roster. If Evans isn't in my office in fifteen minutes, I will inform Marcus Thorne that the captain of his team is actively obstructing a league-mandated crisis protocol. "

I watch his jaw tighten. It is the only sign that my words landed.

He looks down at me. I refuse to look away. I am wearing silk and wool; he is wearing sweat and tape. We are operating in two completely different languages, but the friction between us is immediate and undeniable. It feels like a system failure waiting to happen.

Hayes studies my face for three long seconds. He is looking for a crack in my armor, a sign of hesitation. I give him nothing.

Slowly, he steps aside. Just enough to let me pass.

"Fifteen minutes," I say, walking past him.

"Whitaker," he calls out.

I stop and look back over my shoulder.

Hayes is watching me, his dark eyes entirely unreadable. He leans his good shoulder against the concrete wall.

"You won't last a week," he says quietly.

I offer him a perfectly polite, entirely cold smile. "I'll see you at media training, Captain."

I turn and walk away, the sound of my heels echoing down the tunnel, pretending my heart isn't beating a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs.

I know better than to call it attraction. Attraction is too simple, too soft around the edges. This is recognition at the wrong temperature. A locked door meeting a battering ram and realizing both were built for the same kind of weather.

Behind me, the players start talking again, quieter than before.

Good.

A room that goes quiet for me can be managed. A man who makes me listen to the quiet inside myself is the real problem.

I check my reflection in the elevator doors before they open. Coat straight. Mouth steady. Eyes clear enough to pass.

A woman gets one entrance in a place like this before men decide whether she is decoration, problem, or threat.

I intend to be all three, in whatever order keeps them careless.

This job was supposed to be simple. Fix the kid, take the money, build my firm.

But as I push through the heavy double doors leading back to the executive level, I know exactly what the real problem in Portland is going to be.

It isn't the rookie.

It's Bennett Hayes.