CHAPTER 4
BENNETT
The gray walls of the conference room feel a lot closer together now that she is gone.
I look at the empty chair across the table, then down at the metal pen still resting near my hand. Maren Whitaker didn't just call my bluff; she dismantled it with a single photograph and walked out without waiting for an explanation.
I pick up the pen, feeling the smooth, cold weight of it, and drop it into my pocket.
My phone buzzes in my other pocket. I pull it out. It’s a text from Mac.
Mac: Thorne is on the warpath. He’s looking for you.
I type a quick reply—On my way down—and shove the phone away.
I leave the conference room and take the stairs down to the executive level, skipping the elevator. The physical exertion helps burn off the adrenaline spiking in my chest, but it does nothing for the dull ache in my shoulder.
Marcus Thorne’s office door is open. He is standing behind his desk, holding a printed copy of the new photo that just leaked online.
"Close the door, Hayes," Thorne says. He doesn't look up.
I step inside and push the heavy mahogany door shut. It clicks into place, sealing us in.
"You told me you were at the club," Thorne says, dropping the paper onto his desk. He finally looks at me, his expression a careful mask of corporate disappointment. "You told me you were supervising Evans. You explicitly stated that you would take the penalty for the curfew violation."
"I was at the club," I say, keeping my voice level. "I got there at 2:25 AM. The timestamp on that photo is 2:14. I missed him by ten minutes."
Thorne leans forward, resting his hands flat on the desk. "So you lied to your General Manager to protect a rookie who is currently tanking the reputation of this franchise."
"I didn't lie about taking the responsibility. He's my player. The failure is mine."
"Save the captain speech for the locker room," Thorne snaps.
"The league office just called. They are launching a formal inquiry into the sponsor conflict.
The beverage company is threatening to pull their advertising from the arena boards for the rest of the season.
Do you know how much money that is, Bennett? "
"I know it's less than what Grant Evans will generate for this team if you let him play."
Thorne laughs, a short, humorless sound. "Evans is a liability. And right now, so are you. I brought Whitaker in here to clean this up, and the first thing you do is feed her a fabricated story that blows up in her face an hour later."
I shift my weight. The memory of Maren’s furious, icy expression in the conference room flashes in my mind. She was right. I handed Thorne exactly what he needed.
"I'll fix it," I say.
"No, you won't." Thorne walks around his desk. "Whitaker is going to fix it. She is going to draft a statement that throws Evans exactly where he belongs—under the scrutiny of the league. And you are going to stay out of her way."
"You trade Grant now, you lose the only speed we have on the second line."
"I trade Grant now, I save my job and this franchise's bottom line," Thorne counters, stopping two feet in front of me.
"You are thirty-three years old, Hayes. You have one year left on a contract we both know you are struggling to fulfill.
Your numbers are down. Your ice time is dropping.
Don't push me on this. You don't have the leverage you think you do. "
He is aiming for the throat. He knows I am playing through pain. He doesn't know exactly how bad the shoulder is, but he knows enough to use it as a weapon.
"Leave Maren Whitaker to do her job," Thorne adds, his voice dropping to a warning register. "If I find out you are interfering with her protocol again, I will strip the 'C' off your jersey before the trade deadline. Are we clear?"
I look at him. I calculate the angles. If I push back now, he fires Grant today. If I back down, I buy time.
"We're clear," I say.
I turn and walk out of the office.
The walk from the executive suite to the parking garage feels twice as long as usual. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a heavy, toxic exhaustion. I need ice. I need a dark room. Most of all, I need to figure out how to undo the damage I just did to Maren’s strategy.
I find her in the VIP parking lot.
She is standing next to a sleek, dark gray rental car. The hood is popped open. She is staring at the engine block with an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred.
The Portland winter has shifted from slush to a freezing, steady rain. She is wearing her expensive wool coat, but she doesn't have an umbrella. Her hair is getting wet, losing its perfect structure.
I walk over, my boots heavy against the wet pavement.
"Car trouble?" I ask.
Maren jumps slightly, turning to face me. She wipes a drop of rain off her cheek, her eyes narrowing.
"The battery is dead," she says, her voice tight. "I left the interior light on this morning."
"Do you have cables?"
"No. It’s a rental." She looks back at the engine, her posture rigid. "I called a service truck. They said it will be forty-five minutes."
I look at the rain, then at her shoes. They are the same leather pumps she was cleaning this morning. They are currently submerged in a shallow puddle of freezing water.
"Get in my truck," I say.
She looks at me like I just suggested we rob a bank. "Excuse me?"
"My truck is right there." I point to the black pickup parked three spaces away. "I have jumper cables in the back. Get in, turn the heat on, and I'll jump the battery."
"I don't need your help, Hayes. The truck is coming."
"The truck is coming in forty-five minutes, and it's thirty-two degrees out here." I step closer, invading her space just enough to force her to look up at me. "You are shivering. Get in the truck, Maren."
She holds her ground for three seconds. She is calculating the optics, weighing her pride against the physical reality of the freezing rain.
Finally, she slams the hood of the rental car shut.
"Fine," she says, her voice clipped.
She walks past me, her heels clicking sharply against the wet asphalt. I follow her to the truck, unlock the doors with the key fob, and watch as she climbs into the passenger seat. She pulls the door shut, sealing herself inside.
I walk to the back of the truck, open the heavy metal toolbox secured in the bed, and pull out the jumper cables. The rain is soaking through my polo shirt, the cold seeping into my bad shoulder, causing the joint to throb with a dull, rhythmic ache.
I pop the hood of her rental, connect the cables to her battery, and then walk around to the front of my truck. I open the driver's side door and slide in behind the wheel.
The cab of the truck is warm. The heater is running full blast.
Maren is sitting in the passenger seat, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She is staring straight ahead through the windshield, watching the rain blur the glass. The silence in the cab is thick, heavy with the unresolved argument from the conference room.
I leave the door open, standing half inside the cab, and reach across the steering wheel to pop my own hood.
My left arm brushes against her right shoulder.
It is a brief, accidental contact, but the physical reality of it is jarring. She is freezing. I can feel the cold radiating off her damp wool coat.
I connect the cables to my battery, start the engine, and let it run for a minute.
"Try it now," I say, leaning back into the cab.
Maren reaches over and turns the key in the rental's ignition. The engine sputters, struggles for a second, and then roars to life.
She lets out a sharp breath, dropping her hand from the key.
"Thank you," she says, still not looking at me.
I shut off my engine, disconnect the cables, and throw them back into the toolbox. I walk around to the passenger side of the truck and open the door.
"You're good to go," I say.
Maren doesn't move immediately. She looks at me, the rain hitting the open door between us. Her professional mask is back in place, but the edges are slightly frayed.
"I am going to draft a new statement tonight," she says, her voice steady. "It will focus entirely on Grant Evans. I am removing your name from the narrative completely."
"Maren—"
"Don't," she interrupts, holding up a hand. "You lied to me. You compromised my strategy, and you gave Marcus Thorne exactly what he wanted. I am not going to let you burn your own career to the ground just because you feel guilty about a rookie."
"It's not guilt," I say quietly. "It's my job."
"Your job is to play defense," she counters, echoing Mac's words from earlier. "My job is to manage the fallout. Let me do my job, Hayes. Or I will walk away from this contract tomorrow."
I look at her. She is shivering, her clothes are damp, and she is staring at me with a fierce, absolute determination that I have never seen in this franchise before.
She isn't trying to control me for Thorne. She is trying to protect me from him.
"Okay," I say.
Maren blinks, clearly surprised by my immediate surrender. "Okay?"
"You write the statement. I'll read it." I step back, giving her room to get out of the truck. "But Grant doesn't face the media alone. If he goes to the podium, I stand next to him."
She studies my face for a long moment. She is looking for the lie, searching for the hidden angle.
"Deal," she says finally.
She steps out of the truck. She is close enough that I can smell the faint trace of her perfume again, mixed with the cold rain. She looks up at me, her eyes dark and intense.
"Don't lie to me again, Bennett," she says softly.
She doesn't wait for an answer. She turns and walks back to her rental car, her posture rigid, her armor firmly back in place.
I watch her drive out of the parking lot, the red taillights disappearing into the gray Portland afternoon.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the metal pen she left on the conference table. I turn it over in my fingers, feeling the smooth surface.
I am in deep trouble.
Because I just realized that protecting Grant Evans is no longer the most dangerous thing I am doing this season.
The most dangerous thing I am doing is starting to trust Maren Whitaker.