CHAPTER 5
MAREN
The press room on the ground floor of the arena is designed to look intimidating. The walls are painted a dark, flat navy, absorbing the bright glare of the television lights. The podium sits on a raised platform, flanked by two massive Kodiaks banners.
I stand off to the side, leaning against the cold cinderblock wall, watching the room fill up.
There are twenty-five journalists here. Some are local beat reporters who cover the team every day; others are national sports correspondents who flew in just for the blood in the water.
The low hum of their conversations sounds like a swarm of insects.
They are checking microphones, adjusting camera lenses, and waiting.
I look down at my phone.
Vivian: The league just issued a formal statement. They are reviewing the sponsor conflict. If Evans doesn't sell this apology, they will suspend him for three games.
I lock the screen and slip the phone into the pocket of my blazer.
I don't need Vivian to tell me the stakes. I spent the entire night drafting and discarding statements until I had a script that thread the needle perfectly—admitting fault without admitting legal liability, showing remorse without showing weakness.
The door at the back of the room opens. The low hum of conversation instantly stops.
Grant Evans walks in first. He is wearing a dark suit that looks a size too big on him, his tie knotted tightly against his throat. He looks pale, his eyes darting toward the cameras before dropping to the floor.
Bennett Hayes walks in right behind him.
The shift in the room's energy is immediate.
Bennett isn't wearing a suit. He is wearing his game-day travel gear—a black quarter-zip pullover with the team logo, dark slacks, and a watch with a heavy steel band.
He walks with a slow, deliberate pace, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the cluster of photographers near the door.
He doesn't look at the cameras. He looks at me.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room. I give him a single, barely perceptible nod. He holds my gaze for a fraction of a second, acknowledging the command, before turning his attention to the podium.
He steps up onto the platform and stands slightly behind Grant, slightly to the left. It is a tactical position. He isn't taking the microphone, but his physical presence is a shield.
"Good morning," Grant says. His voice cracks on the second word. He clears his throat and leans closer to the microphone. "I want to start by apologizing to the Kodiaks organization, our sponsors, and the fans."
I watch the reporters. They are writing furiously, but their body language is predatory. They smell the fear on the kid.
Grant reads the statement exactly as I wrote it. He admits to breaking curfew. He admits to attending the VIP party. He states clearly that he made a poor decision regarding the beverage he was photographed with, and he accepts the fine imposed by the front office.
It takes exactly two minutes.
"I am committed to this team," Grant finishes, his voice finally stabilizing. "And I will work hard to regain the trust of my teammates. Thank you."
He steps back from the microphone.
Immediately, five reporters start shouting questions at once.
"Grant, were there other players at the party?""Is the league threatening a suspension?""Are you worried about being traded before the deadline?"
I step forward, preparing to cut the press conference short as planned. "Thank you, everyone. That concludes the—"
"Grant, over here."
The voice cuts through the noise like a knife. It belongs to David Vance, a senior columnist for a national sports network. He is standing in the second row, holding a digital recorder. Vance is notorious for cornering young players and baiting them into saying something stupid.
"You say you're committed to the team," Vance says, his tone dripping with skepticism.
"But you're a twenty-three-year-old kid who just jeopardized a multi-million-dollar sponsorship deal because you wanted to play VIP for a night.
Why should the fans believe this won't happen again?
Are you actually mature enough to play in this league, or are you just riding the coattails of a defense that spends half the game covering your mistakes? "
Grant freezes. The color drains completely from his face. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
I move toward the podium, my heels clicking sharply against the floor. "I said the press conference is over, David."
"The kid can answer the question, Maren," Vance fires back, not even looking at me. "Unless he needs his PR babysitter to wipe his mouth for him."
The insult is sharp, designed to humiliate Grant and provoke a reaction.
Before I can reach the steps of the platform, Bennett moves.
He doesn't rush. He simply steps forward, placing his large hand on Grant’s shoulder and physically moving the younger player a half-step back. Bennett leans down, gripping the edges of the wooden podium.
He looks directly at David Vance. The silence in the room is sudden and absolute.
"Grant Evans is twenty-three," Bennett says. His voice is low, calm, and completely devoid of the PR polish we practiced yesterday. It is the voice of a captain talking to a hostile locker room. "He made a mistake. He owned it. He paid the fine."
"That doesn't answer the question, Hayes," Vance says, though he takes a small half-step back.
"I'm answering the question," Bennett replies, his dark eyes fixed on the reporter.
"You want to talk about the defense covering mistakes?
That's my job. I am the captain of this team.
If a player on my roster makes a mistake off the ice, it is my failure as a leader for not keeping the room tight.
You want to question someone's maturity or commitment to this franchise, you look at me.
You don't corner a rookie who just stood up here and apologized. "
The room is dead quiet. The only sound is the rapid clicking of camera shutters.
"Are you taking responsibility for the curfew violation, Bennett?" another reporter asks quickly.
"I am taking responsibility for my team," Bennett says smoothly. He stands up straight, releasing the podium. "Grant is a Kodiak. We handle our own. If anyone in this room has a problem with how this team operates, my locker is open after practice."
He turns to Grant, gives him a short nod, and walks off the platform.
Grant follows him immediately, looking like a man who just survived a car crash.
I stand at the edge of the platform, my heart hammering against my ribs. Bennett just broke the protocol. He went off-script. He put a target squarely on his own back to shield the kid.
And it was brilliant.
The reporters are already typing frantically on their phones.
The narrative just shifted in real-time.
It is no longer a story about a reckless rookie; it is a story about a veteran captain fiercely defending his team against the media.
It is exactly the kind of old-school hockey loyalty that fans eat up.
I walk out of the press room and head down the hallway toward the executive elevators.
I find Bennett standing near the bank of elevators, waiting for the doors to open. He is alone. Grant has already disappeared toward the locker room.
"You went off-script," I say, stopping a few feet away from him.
He turns his head. The tension in his jaw is still visible, a tight ridge of muscle under his skin. "I told you yesterday. If he goes to the podium, I stand next to him."
"Standing next to him is one thing. Giving David Vance a soundbite that puts the blame on your own leadership is another."
"It worked, didn't it?"
"Yes," I admit, keeping my voice low. "It worked. The fans will love it. The league will back off because they don't want a fight with a veteran captain over a rookie's curfew violation."
The elevator chimes, and the metal doors slide open. The car is empty.
Bennett steps inside. He turns around and looks at me, holding the door open with his hand.
"But?" he prompts.
I step into the elevator with him. The doors slide shut, sealing us in the small, brightly lit box. The sudden quiet is deafening after the chaos of the press room.
"But Marcus Thorne is going to hate it," I say, pressing the button for the third floor. "He wanted Grant isolated. He wanted the kid to look like a liability so he could justify trading him. You just made Grant look like part of a unified team."
"Good."
"It isn't good, Bennett." I turn to face him.
The space in the elevator is too small. I can feel the heat radiating off him.
"Thorne isn't going to just let this go.
If he can't trade Grant without looking like he's tearing the locker room apart, he is going to find another way to balance the books.
And you just reminded him that you are the one standing in his way. "
Bennett looks down at me. He doesn't look worried. He looks tired.
"I can handle Thorne," he says.
"Can you?" I ask, my analytical mind running through the variables. "You have one year left on your contract. You are playing through an injury you are desperately trying to hide. And you just publicly challenged the media."
Bennett stops moving.
The elevator continues its slow ascent, the mechanical hum vibrating through the floor.
"Who told you I was injured?" he asks. His voice is very quiet, and very dangerous.
"Nobody told me." I hold his gaze, refusing to back down from the sudden shift in his demeanor.
"I watch people for a living. I watch how they move when they think no one is looking.
You hesitated in the tunnel yesterday when you blocked my path.
You flinched when I touched your right shoulder in the conference room.
You are compensating with your left side when you stand. "
He stares at me. The silence stretches, thick and heavy.
"If Thorne knows—" he starts.
"Thorne doesn't know," I interrupt. "If Thorne knew, he would have already used it to force a medical review and void your contract before the trade deadline. He suspects you are slowing down, but he doesn't have proof."
The elevator chimes, announcing our arrival at the executive floor. The doors slide open.
Neither of us moves.
"Why are you telling me this?" Bennett asks. He isn't angry anymore. He is calculating. He is trying to figure out if I am a threat or an asset.
"Because I need you to understand that you are not invincible," I say, my voice steady.
"You are playing a very dangerous game with the front office, and you are doing it with a handicap.
If you want to protect Grant, fine. But you cannot do it by throwing yourself on the sword every time Thorne lights a fire. "
I step out of the elevator.
"I am managing this crisis, Hayes," I say, looking back at him. "Let me manage it. Before you run out of leverage completely."
I walk down the hallway toward my office, leaving him standing in the open elevator.
When I reach my desk, I sit down and open my laptop. My hands are perfectly steady. My breathing is even.
I open the top drawer of my desk to grab a pen.
My eyes fall on the small, folded piece of black friction tape sitting in the back corner.
I stare at it for a long moment. I close the drawer, harder than necessary, and start typing the follow-up press release.
I am in control of the narrative. I am in control of the crisis.
But as I type, I can still feel the exact weight of Bennett Hayes's gaze on me in that elevator, and the cold certainty that he is the one variable I cannot predict.