CHAPTER 9
MAREN
The charity gala is mandatory for the entire front office and the starting roster. It is held in the grand ballroom of a downtown Portland hotel, a space currently overflowing with crystal chandeliers, open bars, and corporate sponsors willing to write large checks for a tax write-off.
I stand near the edge of the room, holding a glass of sparkling water I have no intention of drinking.
I am wearing a floor-length black silk dress with a high neckline and long sleeves.
It is elegant, conservative, and functions exactly like my office blazers: it is armor.
I need it tonight. After the disaster in Denver and the escalating tension with Marcus Thorne, the last thing I want is to navigate a room full of people who view the Kodiaks as an investment portfolio.
I scan the crowd.
The players look uncomfortable in their custom tuxedos.
Hockey players are built for heavy gear and wide stances, not for tailored Italian wool.
Grant Evans is standing near the buffet line, looking nervous but at least keeping a safe distance from the alcohol.
Mac is talking to a group of board members, charming them with the easy charisma of a veteran goaltender.
And then there is Bennett.
He is standing near the center of the room, surrounded by three executives from a major telecommunications company.
The tuxedo fits him perfectly, emphasizing the sheer width of his shoulders and the solid, immovable line of his posture.
He is listening to one of the executives speak, nodding at the appropriate intervals, but his eyes are scanning the perimeter of the room.
He is doing exactly what he does on the ice. He is tracking the play.
His gaze catches mine across the crowded ballroom.
He doesn't smile. He doesn't nod. He just holds my eyes for three long seconds, the intensity of his stare cutting through the noise and the distance between us like a physical weight.
I look away first, taking a slow sip of my water. My heart is beating a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs.
Since the night in the Denver hotel room, the dynamic between us has shifted into something dangerous.
We haven't spoken about the injury again, but the knowledge of it sits between us, a shared secret that feels heavier than any PR crisis.
He knows I am watching his ice time. I know he is pushing his body to the breaking point just to spite Thorne.
"Ms. Whitaker."
I turn around. Marcus Thorne is standing a few feet away, holding a glass of scotch. He is wearing a velvet dinner jacket that looks entirely too expensive.
"Mr. Thorne," I say, keeping my voice even.
"You managed to keep Evans out of the headlines this week," Thorne says, taking a sip of his drink. "I suppose I should congratulate you."
"The strategy worked. The league backed off, and the sponsors are satisfied."
"For now." Thorne steps closer, lowering his voice so the surrounding guests can't hear. "But your strategy relied heavily on the captain acting as a human shield. A captain who, as I understand it, has been demoted to the second defensive pairing by Coach Miller."
I keep my expression completely blank. "Ice time is a coaching decision, Marcus. I manage public relations, not the roster."
"Don't play coy with me, Maren." Thorne smiles, but his eyes are cold. "Hayes is slowing down. He is a liability on the ice, and after his little stunt with the reporter in Denver, he is becoming a liability off it. I need you to start preparing a transition narrative."
My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. "A transition narrative?"
"For the trade deadline," Thorne clarifies smoothly. "I want the public primed for his departure. I want them focusing on his age and his declining stats, not on his loyalty to the franchise. When I move him, I don't want a fan revolt. I want them to think it was a necessary business decision."
He is asking me to destroy Bennett’s reputation. He wants me to use my skills to systematically dismantle the image of the man who has carried this team for years, just so Thorne can save face when he trades him.
The memory of Bennett sitting on my hotel bed, his shoulder a canvas of bruises, flashes in my mind.
"Bennett Hayes is the face of this franchise," I say, my voice dropping to a precise, icy register. "If you try to paint him as a liability, the fans won't buy it. They will see right through it, and the backlash will hit the front office, not the player."
Thorne’s smile vanishes. "You work for me, Ms. Whitaker. You don't work for the players. You will draft the narrative I ask for, or I will find a PR firm that will."
Before I can respond, a heavy, solid presence materializes beside me.
"Marcus," Bennett says.
Thorne shifts his gaze, his posture stiffening slightly. "Bennett. I was just discussing the upcoming schedule with Ms. Whitaker."
"Is that right?" Bennett doesn't look at Thorne. He looks at me. He takes in the rigid line of my shoulders, the tight grip I have on my glass, and the barely concealed fury in my eyes. He reads the situation in a fraction of a second.
"They need you at the main table, Marcus," Bennett says, finally turning his attention to the GM. "The sponsors from the beverage company want to talk about the luxury suite renewals."
It is a polite dismissal, but the underlying tone is absolute. Bennett is using his status as the captain to pull rank in a room full of people who still view him as the most valuable asset in the building.
Thorne looks between the two of us. He knows he is being managed, but he can't cause a scene in front of the board.
"We will finish this conversation tomorrow, Maren," Thorne says quietly. He gives Bennett a tight nod and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.
I let out a slow, shaky breath. My hand is trembling so badly that the ice in my glass clinks against the crystal.
"Give me the glass," Bennett says.
"I'm fine."
"Give me the glass, Maren."
I hand it to him. He sets it on a passing waiter's tray without looking, then steps closer, effectively blocking me from the view of the rest of the room.
"What did he say to you?" Bennett asks, his voice low.
"Nothing I can't handle."
"You are shaking."
"I am angry, not scared." I look up at him.
The tuxedo makes him look impossibly large, but it is the focused intensity in his eyes that makes my breath catch.
"He wants me to build a PR campaign to justify trading you before the deadline.
He wants me to leak stories about your declining stats to turn the fans against you. "
Bennett’s jaw tightens, but he doesn't look surprised. "I told you he was building a case."
"I won't do it, Bennett."
"You have to. If you don't, he'll fire you. You lose the contract, and you lose the capital for your firm."
"I don't care about the contract!"
The words slip out louder than I intend. A woman standing a few feet away turns her head, looking at us curiously.
Bennett reacts instantly. He steps forward, placing his hand firmly on the small of my back. The heat of his palm bleeds through the thin silk of my dress, sending a shockwave of electricity straight up my spine.
"Walk with me," he says quietly.
He guides me through the crowded ballroom, his hand never leaving my back. We move past the open bars, past the silent auction tables, and out through a set of heavy double doors that lead to the hotel's catering kitchens.
The transition is jarring. The noise of the gala is instantly muffled, replaced by the clatter of stainless steel pans and the shout of the head chef coordinating the dessert service.
Bennett doesn't stop. He guides me down a narrow, brightly lit service hallway until we reach a small alcove near the freight elevators. It is completely empty.
He drops his hand from my back and turns to face me.
"You are not throwing your career away for me," he says, his voice hard.
"You don't get to make that decision for me," I fire back, my anger finally breaking through the professional restraint. "I spent two years cleaning up the mess another athlete made of my life. I am not going to let Marcus Thorne use me to do the exact same thing to you."
"It isn't the same thing. I am telling you to do it."
"And I am telling you no!" I step closer to him, the space in the alcove suddenly feeling very small.
"You think this is noble, Hayes? You think letting Thorne destroy your reputation so I can keep a paycheck makes you a hero?
It doesn't. It makes you a self-sacrificing man, and I refuse to be the person hammering the nails in. "
Bennett stares at me. His chest is rising and falling heavily. The harsh fluorescent light of the service hallway casts sharp shadows across the angles of his face.
"I am not a hero, Maren," he says, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "I am a thirty-three-year-old defenseman with a wrecked shoulder and a GM who wants me gone. The only thing I have left in this franchise is the ability to take the hit so the people behind me don't have to."
"I am not behind you," I say, my voice trembling. "I am standing right next to you."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Bennett looks at me, really looks at me, and I see the exact moment his control snaps.
He reaches out. He doesn't grab my arm or my waist. He brings his hands up and gently cups my face, his thumbs tracing the line of my cheekbones. His hands are rough, callused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly careful.
I stop breathing.
"You shouldn't be standing next to me," he murmurs, his eyes dropping to my mouth. "It's too dangerous."
"I assess risk for a living," I whisper back, my hands coming up to grip the lapels of his tuxedo jacket. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
He closes the distance between us.
It isn't a gentle kiss. It is desperate, heavy, and completely consuming. The moment his mouth covers mine, the last two weeks of tension, anger, and forced proximity explode.
I open my mouth for him, pulling him closer, my fingers twisting into the expensive wool of his jacket. He groans, a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, and slides his hands from my face down to my waist, pulling my body flush against his.
The physical reality of him is overwhelming. He is solid muscle and heat, and he tastes like expensive scotch and mint. He kisses me like a man who has been starving, his mouth demanding and entirely focused.
I slide my hands up his chest, wrapping my arms around his neck. I am careful to avoid putting any pressure on his right shoulder, shifting my weight to anchor myself against his left side.
He notices the adjustment. He pulls back slightly, his breathing ragged, his forehead resting against mine.
"Maren," he breathes, his voice completely wrecked.
"I know," I say, my hands still tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck.
We stand there in the harsh light of the service hallway, the sounds of the kitchen echoing faintly in the distance. The line has been crossed. The professional boundary is completely gone, burned to ash in the space of a single kiss.
Bennett pulls back far enough to look at my face. His eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide.
"If Thorne finds out about this," he says, his voice tight with warning, "he won't just fire you. He will make sure you never work in this league again."
"Then we make sure he doesn't find out." I smooth the lapels of his jacket, my hands lingering on his chest. "I am the PR manager, Bennett. I know how to hide things."
He lets out a short, humorless laugh, resting his hands on my hips.
"You can't hide this," he says softly. "Not from me."
Before I can answer, the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway swing open. A pair of waiters carrying large trays of empty champagne flutes walk through, laughing about something.
Bennett instantly drops his hands and takes a half-step back, putting a perfectly acceptable, professional distance between us.
I turn my head, adjusting the collar of my dress, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs.
The waiters walk past us without a second glance, disappearing into the kitchen.
I look back at Bennett. The mask is back in place. He looks exactly like the stoic, untouchable captain of the Portland Kodiaks again. But the way he is looking at me tells a completely different story.
"Go back to the ballroom," he says quietly. "I'll follow in five minutes."
I nod. I don't trust my voice to speak.
I walk away, heading back toward the noise and the lights of the gala. I am a crisis manager. My entire career is built on logic, protocol, and controlling the variables.
But as I push through the doors and step back into the crowded room, I know with absolute certainty that I have just created a crisis I cannot control.
And for the first time in my life, I don't want to.