CHAPTER 2
BENNETT
The pain in my right shoulder isn’t a sharp stab anymore. It’s a low, heavy burn, the kind of ache that settles into the joint and refuses to leave, no matter how much ice I pack onto it.
I roll the shoulder backward, feeling the familiar grind of bone and inflamed tissue, as I watch Maren Whitaker’s tailored coat disappear through the double doors at the end of the concrete tunnel.
The silence in the hallway stretches.
"Well," Mac says. The goaltender is leaning against the wall next to the medical room, holding a half-empty protein shake. "She seems fun."
I don't answer. I pull another strip of black tape from the roll in my pocket, wrapping it around the handle of my spare stick. The friction of the adhesive against the composite shaft is a sound I’ve known my whole life.
It usually grounds me. Right now, it just feels like I’m preparing for a hit I can’t see coming.
"She’s corporate," I say finally. "She’ll try to box Grant in. Make him read a statement, parade him in front of the cameras, and throw him under the bus the second Thorne tells her to."
"Maybe," Mac says, taking a slow drink. "Or maybe she’s exactly what the kid needs. He’s twenty-three, Benny. He’s old enough to know better than to get caught on camera at a VIP party drinking the rival sponsor’s vodka.
The league is going to fine him, and Thorne is looking for an excuse to bench him. "
"Thorne is looking for an excuse to trade him," I correct. I press the tape down firmly with my thumb. "Grant is raw talent. Thorne wants a veteran who can score twenty goals right now to save his own job. He’ll use this PR mess to justify moving the kid."
Mac shifts his weight, the heavy pads on his legs scraping against the floor. "And you’re going to stop him?"
"I’m the captain. It’s my job."
"Your job is to play defense," Mac replies quietly. "Not to take every bullet Thorne fires at this roster."
I look at him. Mac is the only guy on the team who has been here almost as long as I have. He knows exactly how much this franchise takes from us, and he knows how much I’ve given it.
"Where is Grant?" I ask.
"Locker room. Hiding in his stall."
I leave Mac in the hallway and push through the heavy wooden door of the locker room.
The space is a mess of discarded gear, wet towels, and the lingering smell of ammonia smelling salts.
Most of the guys have already hit the showers or left.
Grant Evans is sitting on the bench in front of his locker, still wearing his base layers.
He is staring at his phone, his face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights.
He looks exactly like what he is: a kid who just realized that the money and the fame come with a price tag he can’t afford.
"Put the phone away," I say, walking over to my own stall.
Grant jumps slightly, dropping the phone onto his hockey bag. "Benny. Man, I didn't mean for this to blow up. It was just a party. Someone shoved the bottle in my hand, and the camera was right there."
"I don't care about the bottle," I say. I start unlacing my skates, the rigid boots stiff against my ankles. "I care that you broke curfew, violated your contract, and gave Thorne the leverage he needs to ruin your season."
"I know." Grant rubs a hand over his face. "Thorne texted me. He said the new PR woman is going to handle it. He said I have to do whatever she says."
"Maren Whitaker."
"Yeah. That’s her." Grant looks up at me, panic clear in his eyes. "What is she going to do? Is she going to make me do a press conference? I can't do a press conference, Benny. I freeze up. I'll say the wrong thing."
I pull my left skate off and drop it onto the rubber floor. "She wants you in her office in ten minutes."
Grant swallows hard. "What should I tell her?"
"Nothing."
I stand up, ignoring the spike of pain in my shoulder.
I walk over to Grant’s stall and look down at him.
He is a good kid. He plays fast, he passes the puck when he should, and he has a shot that could make him a star in this league.
But he doesn't know how to survive the machinery of the front office yet.
"You don't say a word to her," I tell him. "You let me handle it."
"Benny, Thorne said—"
"I don't care what Thorne said." I keep my voice low, making sure the words carry the weight they need to. "She isn't here to help you, Grant. She’s here to protect the franchise. If she thinks throwing you to the media is the fastest way to clean up the mess, she will do it without blinking."
I remember the way Maren Whitaker looked in the hallway. The perfect posture. The cold, analytical eyes. She looked at me like I was a problem to be solved, an obstacle in the way of her protocol.
She isn't afraid of the locker room. She isn't intimidated by the size of the players or the hostility of the environment. That makes her dangerous.
"Go hit the showers," I say, stepping back. "I'll go to her office."
"Are you sure?" Grant asks, standing up slowly.
"Yeah." I grab a clean t-shirt from my bag. "I'm sure."
Ten minutes later, I am standing outside the executive suite on the third floor. The air up here is different. It feels sterile. Filtered.
I push the glass door open and walk past the empty receptionist desk. Maren’s office is at the end of the hall. The door is slightly ajar.
I don't knock. I push the door open and step inside.
Maren is sitting behind a large mahogany desk. She has a laptop open in front of her, and three different legal pads aligned perfectly on the edge of the wood. She is typing rapidly, her focus absolute.
She doesn't look up when I enter.
"You are three minutes late, Mr. Evans," she says, her voice crisp.
"Evans isn't coming."
Her fingers stop moving over the keyboard. She slowly raises her head, her eyes locking onto mine. The irritation in her expression is brief, quickly replaced by that same blank, professional mask she wore in the tunnel.
"I believe I was very clear downstairs, Captain," she says. "I need Evans."
"And I was very clear," I reply, walking further into the office. The room is too warm. It smells like fresh espresso and expensive paper. "We handle our own."
"You are handling nothing." Maren closes her laptop with a soft click.
She leans back in her chair, studying me.
"You are enabling a twenty-three-year-old adult who broke a multi-million-dollar contract because he wanted to drink vodka at a club.
If you think shielding him from me is protecting him, you are a worse captain than your record suggests. "
The words hit exactly where she intended them to. My jaw tightens.
I walk over to the two leather chairs positioned in front of her desk. I don't sit down. I stand behind one of them, resting my hands on the high back.
"You don't know anything about my record, or my team," I say evenly.
"I know that the Kodiaks are currently sitting three points out of a playoff spot," she counters, not missing a beat.
"I know that your defense is slow, your offense relies entirely on a rookie who is currently trending on social media for all the wrong reasons, and your General Manager is looking for a scapegoat. "
She is entirely too accurate.
"So what is your plan?" I ask. "Put Grant in front of a microphone and make him cry? Have him apologize to the sponsor and promise to be a good boy?"
"My plan is to control the damage before the league decides to make an example out of him.
" Maren stands up. She walks around the desk, stopping a few feet away from me.
Without the desk between us, the difference in our size is obvious again.
But she doesn't retreat. "I need to know exactly what happened at that party.
I need to know who else was there, who filmed the video, and if there is anything else that is going to leak. "
"There is nothing else."
"You can't guarantee that."
"I can." I grip the leather of the chair tighter. "Because I was there."
Maren stops. The silence in the office suddenly feels heavy, thick with the weight of the lie I just told.
She looks at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. She is analyzing the data, searching for the flaw in the narrative.
"You were at the party," she repeats slowly.
"Yes."
"The team captain. At an unauthorized VIP event, after curfew."
"Yes."
She crosses her arms over her chest. The silk of her blouse shifts under the movement. "Why aren't you in the video, then?"
"I was standing by the door. I went to get Grant out." It is a half-truth. I did go to the club to pull Grant out, but I arrived ten minutes after the video was taken. "I take full responsibility for the situation. Grant was under my supervision. The failure is mine."
Maren stares at me. I can see the exact moment she realizes what I am doing.
"You are lying," she says quietly.
"I'm giving you a statement."
"You are trying to take the heat off your rookie by offering yourself as a target.
" She takes a step closer. The scent of her perfume—something subtle, clean, and expensive—cuts through the sterile air of the office.
"Do you think Marcus Thorne will hesitate to use this against you?
You are in the final year of your contract, Hayes.
If you take the fall for a morality clause violation, he will use it to lower your value before the trade deadline. "
"That's my problem."
"No, it's my problem." Maren points a finger at my chest, stopping just short of actually touching me. "Because I am the one who has to spin it. And I cannot spin a lie that is going to fall apart the second a reporter asks a follow-up question."
"Then you better start working on a really good spin, Ms. Whitaker."
I let go of the chair and step around it, moving closer to her. I need her to understand that I am not going to back down. I need her to see that I will burn my own reputation to the ground before I let Thorne destroy Grant’s career.
"I am the captain," I say, my voice dropping. "The failure is mine. That is the only statement you are getting from this team. Write it down, send it to Thorne, and leave Grant alone."
Maren doesn't flinch. She looks up at me, her eyes dark and furious.
"You have a self-sacrificing instinct," she says, the words sharp and precise. "You think taking the hit makes you noble. It doesn't. It makes you a liability."
"I've been taking hits my whole life," I tell her. "I'm still standing."
"For now." She steps back, finally putting some distance between us.
She walks back around her desk and opens her laptop.
"I will draft a statement. But you are going to read it exactly as I write it.
You will not improvise. You will not try to be a hero on camera.
If you are going to take the fall for this, you are going to do it my way. "
I watch her hands move over the keyboard. She is angry, but her movements are completely controlled. She is already building the armor, preparing for the war.
"Fine," I say.
I turn and walk toward the door. As I reach for the handle, I stop. I pull the small roll of black tape from my pocket. I tear off a short piece, fold it over onto itself, and drop it onto the edge of the small table near the door.
It is a stupid habit. A physical marker. A way of leaving a piece of myself behind in a room that doesn't belong to me.
"Hayes," she says.
I look back. Maren is watching me, the glow of the laptop screen reflecting in her eyes.
"If you lie to me again," she says, her voice devoid of any warmth, "I won't protect you. I will let the media tear you apart."
I hold her gaze for a long moment. I know she means it. And for the first time in a very long time, I feel a genuine spark of respect for the person standing across from me.
"I wouldn't expect anything less," I say.
I walk out of the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, leaving the sterile air and the sharp scent of espresso behind.
My shoulder throbs, a dull, relentless reminder of the physical cost of this game. But as I walk toward the elevator, my mind isn't on the pain, or the impending press conference, or the threat of Marcus Thorne.
It is entirely focused on Maren Whitaker.
And the cold clarity that she might be the only person in this building who can actually see right through me.