CHAPTER 7
MAREN
The lobby of the team hotel in Denver is a chaotic blend of marble floors, oversized leather furniture, and a gauntlet of sports journalists.
I step off the team bus before the players, immediately assessing the perimeter.
The hotel security is doing their best to keep the press behind velvet ropes, but the sheer volume of reporters is overwhelming.
The story of Bennett challenging David Vance at the press conference has been playing on a loop on every sports network since we took off from Portland.
They aren't here for Grant Evans anymore. They are here for the captain.
I pull my phone out, typing a rapid message to the hotel manager to request a secondary entrance for the players, but it’s too late. The heavy glass doors slide open, and Bennett walks into the lobby, his duffel bag slung over his good shoulder.
The flashbulbs erupt in a blinding, strobing wave.
"Hayes! Over here!""Bennett, did Thorne authorize your comments this morning?""Is the front office looking to trade you before the deadline?"
Bennett doesn't break stride. He keeps his head forward, his expression completely blank, moving with the heavy, unstoppable momentum of a freight train. The rest of the team files in behind him, using his massive frame to break the crowd like a snowplow.
I stand near the front desk, watching the logistics. My job is to make sure no one stops to give an unauthorized soundbite.
A reporter with a local credential ducks under the velvet rope, completely bypassing security. He doesn't go for Bennett. He makes a direct line for me.
"Maren Whitaker," he says, shoving a digital recorder in my direction.
He is a tall man in a cheap suit, and he smells strongly of stale coffee and mint gum.
"You’ve been handling the Kodiaks' PR for less than a week.
Is this the same strategy you used in New York?
Let the players lie to the press while you cover the tracks? "
The question is a physical blow.
It is designed to be. He knows exactly what buttons to push to get a reaction. He is trying to rattle me, hoping I’ll snap and give him a headline about the PR manager losing her cool.
I lock my knees, refusing to step back. I keep my expression perfectly neutral.
"The Kodiaks organization has already issued a formal statement regarding the events of this week," I say, my voice projecting clearly over the noise of the lobby. "We have no further comment at this time."
"Come on, Maren," the reporter presses, stepping closer. He is inside my personal space now, using his height to intimidate me. "The quarterback in New York threw you under the bus. Is Hayes going to do the same thing when Thorne finally trades him?"
My hands are trembling slightly. I press my nails into the leather strap of my bag to ground myself. I am not going to break. I am not going to give him the satisfaction.
"I said, no comment," I repeat, my voice dropping an octave.
"Just one question about the gambling ring—"
A large hand suddenly clamps down on the reporter’s shoulder.
The man is physically spun around, the momentum so forceful he nearly drops his recorder.
Bennett is standing there.
He has dropped his duffel bag on the marble floor. He isn't wearing his PR mask anymore. The cold, flat expression is gone, replaced by a dark, absolute fury that completely changes the geometry of his face.
"She said no comment," Bennett says. His voice isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. It carries the quiet, dangerous weight of a threat.
The reporter pales, taking a quick step back. "Hey, man. Just doing my job."
"Do it behind the rope," Bennett replies, stepping between the reporter and me. He uses his sheer size to block the man’s line of sight to me entirely. "If you step into her space again, I will personally throw you through that glass door."
The lobby goes entirely quiet for two seconds.
Then, the flashbulbs erupt again, twice as fast as before.
Click. Click. Click.
I realize exactly what is happening. The cameras are capturing the captain of the Kodiaks physically intimidating a reporter to protect a member of the front office staff. It is a PR nightmare. It is exactly what Marcus Thorne warned him not to do.
"Bennett, stop," I say sharply.
I grab the sleeve of his pullover, my fingers digging into the thick fabric. I pull him back, breaking the confrontation.
"Walk away," I order him, keeping my voice low. "Right now."
He looks down at me. His jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling heavily. He is running on pure adrenaline and protective instinct, the exact combination that makes him so brilliant on the ice and so destructive off it.
He holds my gaze for a second, then bends down, picks up his duffel bag, and walks toward the elevators without looking back.
I turn back to the reporter. He is already typing on his phone, a smug smile on his face.
"You can expect a call from the league regarding your press credentials," I tell him, my voice completely devoid of emotion.
I don't wait for his response. I walk away, heading for the bank of elevators on the opposite side of the lobby.
By the time I reach my room on the tenth floor, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely slide the keycard into the slot. The green light flashes, and I push the door open, locking it behind me.
I drop my bag on the floor and walk over to the small desk near the window. I pull out my laptop, my phone, and my legal pad, trying to organize the chaos. I need to draft a statement. I need to call Vivian. I need to call Thorne before he sees the footage on Twitter.
I need to breathe.
I press my palms flat against the cool wood of the desk, closing my eyes.
The image of Bennett stepping in front of me plays on a loop in my head.
The sheer, overwhelming relief I felt when he put his hand on that reporter’s shoulder is terrifying.
I am supposed to be the armor. I am supposed to be the one controlling the narrative.
But for ten seconds in that lobby, I let him protect me.
And it is going to cost him his career.
There is a sharp knock on my door.
I open my eyes. I walk over to the door and look through the peephole.
Bennett is standing in the hallway. He has taken off the team pullover and is wearing a plain gray t-shirt. He has a plastic bag full of ice in his left hand.
I unlock the door and pull it open.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, keeping my voice low. "If a reporter sees you on this floor—"
"I don't care about the reporters," he says, stepping past me into the room.
I close the door quickly, engaging the deadbolt.
I turn around to face him. He is standing in the middle of the room, looking at me. The anger from the lobby is gone, replaced by a heavy, physical exhaustion.
"You broke the protocol," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "You broke the one rule I gave you. You cannot physically confront the media. Do you have any idea what that footage is going to look like?"
"He was cornering you."
"I can handle being cornered."
"He was using your trauma to get a headline," Bennett fires back, his voice rising slightly. "I am not going to stand there and watch some hack tear you apart for something that wasn't your fault."
"It isn't your job to protect me!" I say, the words tearing out of my throat before I can stop them.
The silence in the hotel room is sudden and absolute.
Bennett stares at me. He shifts his weight, his eyes darkening. He walks toward me, closing the distance between us until he is standing less than two feet away.
"Isn't it?" he asks quietly.
I look up at him. The proximity is suffocating. I can smell the cold air still clinging to his clothes, mixed with the sharp scent of the ice in the bag he is holding.
"No," I say, my voice trembling slightly. "It isn't. My job is to protect you. And you just made that impossible. Thorne is going to use this. He is going to say you are out of control. He is going to use it to justify trading you."
"Let him."
"Stop saying that." I drop my arms, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "Stop acting like your career doesn't matter. Stop acting like you don't care if you lose everything."
Bennett looks down at me. He lifts his left hand, the one not holding the ice, and slowly reaches out. He doesn't touch my face. He touches the collar of my blazer, his knuckles brushing lightly against the silk of my blouse underneath.
"I care," he says, his voice a low, rough whisper. "I just care about this more."
My breath catches in my throat.
The air in the room feels suddenly electrified. The professional boundary I have been desperately trying to maintain is completely gone, shattered by the intensity in his eyes and the heat of his knuckles against my collarbone.
I should step back. I should tell him to leave.
I don't move.
Bennett watches my face, reading the hesitation, reading the desire I am trying so hard to hide. He leans in closer, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
"Maren," he says, the sound of my name on his lips heavy with a question.
Before I can answer, he suddenly flinches.
It is a sharp, violent movement. He pulls his hand back, his jaw locking as a spasm of pain shoots through his right shoulder. He drops the bag of ice onto the small table next to us, gripping his right arm with his left hand.
The spell breaks instantly.
"Sit down," I say, the PR manager vanishing, replaced entirely by something much more human.
"I'm fine," he grinds out, leaning heavily against the edge of the desk.
"You aren't fine. Sit down." I point to the edge of the bed.
He doesn't argue this time. He walks over and sits on the edge of the mattress, his posture rigid, his breathing shallow.
I walk over to the table and pick up the bag of ice. I grab a small hand towel from the bathroom, wrapping it around the plastic to prevent ice burn.
I walk back to him. He is staring at the floor, his jaw tight.
"Take the shirt off," I say quietly.
Bennett looks up at me. The vulnerability in his eyes is startling. For a man who spends his life being a physical shield for everyone else, admitting weakness is clearly agonizing.
He reaches up with his left hand, grabs the hem of the gray t-shirt, and pulls it over his head.
I suck in a breath.
His right shoulder is a mess. The skin around the joint is deeply bruised, a mottled canvas of dark purple and yellow.
There is a faint, jagged surgical scar running along the top of the collarbone, old but clearly aggravated.
The muscle is visibly inflamed, swollen to almost twice the size of his left shoulder.
He has been playing professional hockey with this. He has been taking hits against the boards with this.
"Bennett," I whisper, the horror evident in my voice.
"It looks worse than it is," he says, staring straight ahead.
"It looks like you are going to tear the muscle completely off the bone if you take one more solid hit."
I step between his knees. I don't ask for permission this time. I gently press the towel-wrapped ice pack against the inflamed joint.
He hisses, his eyes closing as the cold hits the skin.
"Hold it there," I instruct softly.
He brings his left hand up, covering my hand with his, pressing the ice pack firmly against his shoulder.
We stay like that for a long time. The only sound in the room is the low hum of the hotel air conditioning and the steady, heavy rhythm of his breathing.
I look down at him. He is sitting on my bed, half-naked, trusting me with the one secret that could end his career tomorrow if Thorne found out.
I realize, with a terrifying clarity, that the crisis isn't the media. The crisis isn't Marcus Thorne.
The crisis is that I am falling in love with a man who is actively destroying himself, and I have absolutely no idea how to stop him.