CHAPTER 6
BENNETT
The charter flight to Denver is supposed to be quiet. It’s a three-hour trip, the first leg of a four-game road stretch, and most of the guys usually spend it sleeping, playing cards, or staring at iPads.
Today, the cabin feels like a pressure cooker.
I sit in my usual spot near the back of the plane, the window seat in the second-to-last row. Mac is sitting across the aisle, his long legs stretched out into the walkway. The low hum of the jet engines vibrates through the floor, but it isn't enough to drown out the tension.
The press conference this morning is the only thing anyone is talking about.
"You basically told Vance to meet you in the parking lot," Mac says, keeping his voice low enough that the rookies three rows up can't hear. "I haven't seen you go off on a reporter like that since your second year in the league."
"Vance was out of line," I say, staring out the small window at the thick layer of clouds. "He went after Grant to get a headline. I gave him one."
"Yeah, you did. And now the front office is pissed." Mac leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Coach Miller pulled me aside before we boarded. Thorne called him twice this morning. He wants to know if you're losing control of the room."
I turn my head and look at Mac. "Am I?"
"No. The guys loved it. You stood up for the kid." Mac pauses, his expression turning serious. "But Thorne doesn't care about the locker room. He cares about the narrative. And right now, the narrative is that the captain is fighting the media while the GM is trying to clean house."
I rub the back of my neck, feeling the tight knot of muscle at the base of my skull.
The narrative. Maren’s word.
I look toward the front of the plane. The executive seating is separated from the players by a thin curtain. Maren is sitting in the first row, working on her laptop. I can't see her face, just the top of her dark hair and the rigid line of her shoulders.
She knows about the shoulder.
The realization has been sitting heavy in my chest since the elevator doors opened this morning.
I’ve spent eight months hiding the injury from the trainers, from Coach Miller, from Thorne, and even from Mac.
I altered my stance, adjusted my shot, and swallowed enough anti-inflammatories to burn a hole in my stomach, all to keep the secret safe.
Maren Whitaker figured it out in less than forty-eight hours just by watching me walk down a hallway.
"She's coming back here," Mac says, breaking my train of thought.
I look up. Maren is walking down the narrow aisle. She is wearing a dark gray turtleneck and black trousers, a stark contrast to the team tracksuits everyone else is wearing. She moves with that same deliberate, controlled precision, ignoring the stares of the players as she passes their rows.
She stops when she reaches my row.
"Captain," she says.
"Whitaker."
Mac clears his throat, standing up. "I'm going to go see if the rookies have any cash left to lose at poker. Excuse me."
He slides past Maren, giving me a look that clearly says good luck before heading toward the middle of the cabin.
Maren doesn't sit in Mac's empty seat. She stands in the aisle, gripping the back of the seat in front of her to steady herself as the plane hits a patch of light turbulence.
"I just got off the Wi-Fi with the league office," she says, keeping her voice low. "They are dropping the formal inquiry into the sponsor conflict. Grant will pay a fine, but there will be no suspension."
"Good."
"It isn't good. It's a temporary fix." She shifts her weight, her knuckles turning slightly white where she grips the leather seat. "Thorne is furious about the press conference. He feels undermined. He is going to start looking for a reason to discipline you directly."
"Let him look."
Maren narrows her eyes. "You think this is a game, Hayes. You think because you are the captain, you are untouchable. But if Thorne decides to push for a medical evaluation—"
The plane suddenly drops.
It isn't a small bump. It is a massive, stomach-turning drop in altitude. The cabin shudders violently, the overhead bins rattling against the ceiling.
Maren loses her grip on the seat. She stumbles backward, her balance completely gone.
I unbuckle my seatbelt, lunge forward, and catch her by the waist before she hits the floor.
The impact of her body against mine is sudden and hard. I pull her into the empty aisle seat next to me, bracing my boots against the floor to keep us both steady as the plane shakes again.
"Sit down," I say, my voice rough.
She doesn't argue. She drops into the seat, her hands instantly gripping the armrests.
The turbulence continues, a rough, jarring vibration that makes the metal joints of the aircraft groan. Maren is sitting rigidly upright. Her eyes are fixed straight ahead, staring at the back of the seat in front of her. Her breathing is shallow and fast.
She is terrified.
I watch her for a few seconds, waiting for the professional mask to slide back into place, but it doesn't. The turbulence hits another pocket of rough air, and she flinches, her eyes squeezing shut.
"Hey," I say quietly.
She doesn't respond.
I reach over and unpry her right hand from the armrest. Her fingers are freezing. I lace my fingers through hers and rest our joined hands on the console between the seats.
She opens her eyes and looks at our hands, then up at my face.
"I hate flying," she whispers. It is the first time I have heard her voice sound anything less than perfectly controlled.
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"You've been gripping that seat since we took off." I keep my voice steady, pitching it low enough that only she can hear. "You read a single page of a report for forty minutes, and you haven't looked out a window once."
She stares at me, the panic in her eyes mixing with a sudden, sharp vulnerability.
"You watch people for a living," I tell her, using her own words from the elevator. "I play defense. I watch the ice. I know when someone is about to take a hit."
The plane shudders again, a violent, sideways motion.
Maren grips my hand tighter. Her nails bite into the back of my hand, but I don't pull away. I squeeze back, applying a firm, grounding pressure.
"Look at me," I say.
She forces her gaze away from the ceiling and looks at me.
"Breathe," I instruct. "Slow it down."
"I can't control the variables," she says, her voice tight. "I can't manage this. If the mechanics fail, there is no protocol."
"You don't need a protocol right now. You just need to breathe." I shift closer, blocking her view of the rest of the cabin. "Focus on my hand. Focus on the pressure."
She takes a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling unevenly.
"Tell me about New York," I say.
It is a calculated risk, bringing up the trauma I know she is hiding, but I need her brain to engage with something other than the turbulence. I need her to fight me instead of the panic.
Her eyes snap into focus. "What?"
"You told Thorne you don't do sports PR anymore. You told me you don't trust athletes." I keep my thumb moving in a slow, steady circle over the back of her hand. "What happened in New York, Maren?"
"That is none of your business." The anger is there, cutting through the fear. It is exactly what I wanted.
"Make it my business. We have two hours left on this flight, and you need a distraction."
The plane hits another pocket of air, but this time, Maren doesn't flinch. She is too busy glaring at me.
"I had a client," she says, her voice dropping to a low, bitter register. "A quarterback. He was caught in an illegal gambling ring. I built a strategy to mitigate the damage, based on the information he gave me. He swore he was only involved on the periphery."
"He lied."
"He didn't just lie. He was running the ring.
" She pulls her hand slightly, but I don't let go.
"When the federal investigation dropped, he went on national television and said his PR team had advised him to hide the evidence.
He used my name. He painted me as the architect of the cover-up to save his own contract. "
The anger I feel is sudden and sharp. It isn't directed at her. It is directed at a man I have never met, three thousand miles away.
"Did you lose your job?" I ask.
"I lost my firm. I lost my reputation. The media tore me apart for six months.
I became the punchline for every sports blog in the country.
" She looks away, staring at the gray fabric of the seat in front of her.
"I spent two years rebuilding my career in corporate tech.
The Kodiaks contract is the only way I can afford to launch my own agency. If I fail here, I am done."
The turbulence finally begins to smooth out. The violent shaking fades into the steady, familiar hum of the engines.
Maren realizes she is still holding my hand.
She pulls away, her movements sharp and sudden. She smooths the front of her turtleneck, the professional armor sliding back into place, though the edges are still a little fragile.
"I don't need your pity, Hayes," she says, her voice returning to its usual crisp tone.
"I don't pity you," I reply. "I respect you."
She looks at me, surprised.
"You walked back into a locker room after a guy like that destroyed your life," I say. "That takes more guts than blocking a slapshot."
Maren studies my face. The hostility is gone, replaced by a quiet, heavy understanding. She knows I am not patronizing her.
"You aren't what I expected, Bennett," she says softly.
"What did you expect?"
"An arrogant veteran who cares more about his stats than his team." She leans back in the seat, the tension finally leaving her shoulders. "Instead, I get a captain who is willing to ruin his own career to save a rookie, and who holds my hand during turbulence."
"Don't tell the media," I say, allowing a small, dry smile. "It will ruin my reputation."
She doesn't smile back. Her eyes drop to my right shoulder, then back to my face.
"I won't tell Thorne about the injury," she says. It is a promise, not a negotiation. "But you have to let me manage the narrative. If Thorne comes after you, you have to let me fight him. You cannot fall on your sword again."
I look at her. I know I should agree. I know I should let her do her job.
But I also know that Marcus Thorne is a corporate shark, and when he smells blood, he doesn't stop until he gets a kill. If it comes down to my career or hers, I know exactly which one I am going to sacrifice.
"I'll do what I have to do to protect the team," I say.
Maren’s expression hardens. She recognizes the evasion for what it is.
She stands up, gripping the edge of the seat to steady herself as the plane banks slightly.
"If you try to protect me by destroying yourself, Hayes," she says, her voice cold and absolute, "I will never forgive you."
She turns and walks back up the aisle, leaving me alone in the back of the plane.
I look out the window at the gray clouds. The turbulence is gone, but the warning in her voice is still echoing in my head, a promise of a collision that neither of us is going to be able to avoid.