CHAPTER 10
BENNETT
The ice at the Kodiaks' practice facility is heavily scarred by the end of the morning skate.
I take a pass from the boards, transition my weight to my left skate, and fire a slap shot toward the net.
The puck hits the crossbar with a sharp, ringing crack and deflects into the netting.
I don't follow through on the motion. I keep my right arm tucked close to my body, minimizing the rotation of my shoulder.
"You're shooting high today, Cap," Mac says, leaning on his stick in the crease. He pushes his goalie mask up, resting it on top of his helmet. "Everything is sailing over the glove."
"Just adjusting the angle," I say, skating over to the bench to grab a water bottle.
"Right." Mac watches me squirt water into my mouth. "It has nothing to do with the fact that Thorne is standing in the executive gallery with a stopwatch, timing your shifts."
I don't look up at the glass box suspended above the ice.
I already know Thorne is there. He has been there for the last three practices, a silent, looming presence designed to make the entire roster nervous.
It is working. The younger guys are making sloppy mistakes, trying too hard to impress the GM before the trade deadline.
"Let him time me," I say, tossing the water bottle back into the rack.
I skate back out to the center circle. The physical exertion is the only thing keeping my mind off the memory of Maren Whitaker in the service hallway of the hotel three nights ago.
I can still feel the silk of her dress under my hands. I can still taste the exact moment she stopped fighting me and kissed me back. It was reckless. It was a massive breach of protocol that could destroy both of our careers if anyone found out.
And I haven't stopped thinking about it since.
Coach Miller blows the whistle, signaling the end of practice. The guys tap their sticks against the ice and head for the tunnel.
I am the last one off the ice. I grab my spare sticks from the rack and walk down the rubber-matted hallway toward the locker room. The heavy, damp smell of sweat and wet gear hits me as soon as I open the door.
"Hey, Benny." Grant is sitting at his stall, struggling to untie a knot in his skate lace. "You got a second?"
I drop my sticks against the wall and walk over. "What's up?"
"Thorne's assistant came down during practice," Grant says, keeping his voice low. He looks around to make sure the veterans aren't listening. "He left a message. Thorne wants to see me in his office at two o'clock."
I stop unbuckling my shoulder pads. "Did he say what it was about?"
"No. But the trade deadline is in two weeks." Grant finally yanks the lace loose, pulling the skate off. "You think he's moving me? Even after the press conference?"
"The press conference bought you time, Grant.
It didn't buy you immunity." I pull my jersey over my head, careful to keep my right arm steady.
"Thorne is looking for leverage. He wants to see if you're rattled.
You go up there, you keep your answers short, and you don't agree to anything without running it by Maren first."
Grant looks up at me, surprised. "Maren? I thought we were freezing her out."
"We aren't freezing her out," I say, keeping my tone flat. "She is the only person in this building who knows how to handle Thorne's PR traps. If he hands you a piece of paper, you don't sign it. You tell him your crisis manager needs to review it."
"Okay," Grant says, nodding slowly. "Yeah. Okay."
I leave him to finish changing and walk to the showers. The hot water helps loosen the tight, inflamed muscles in my back, but it doesn't touch the deep ache in the joint. I need another injection, but I can't go to the team doctor. Not with Thorne watching my every move.
I dress quickly in a pair of jeans and a dark hoodie, grab my duffel bag, and head for the executive elevators.
I need to see Maren before Grant's meeting.
The third floor is quiet. I walk past the receptionist, who is busy on a phone call, and head straight for Maren’s office. The door is closed.
I knock once and push it open.
Maren is standing by the large window, looking out at the gray Portland skyline. She is wearing a tailored navy suit today, her hair pulled back into a severe knot at the base of her neck. She turns around when she hears the door click shut.
The professional mask is perfectly in place, but I can see the slight hesitation in her eyes. The memory of the hallway is sitting right there in the space between us.
"You should knock and wait for an answer," she says, walking back to her desk.
"Thorne called Grant into his office," I say, bypassing the small talk. "Meeting is at two."
Maren stops, her hand hovering over her keyboard. Her analytical mind instantly engages, pushing the personal tension aside. "Did he say why?"
"No. But he's been watching practice all week. He's building a narrative." I walk over to the leather chairs in front of her desk, dropping my duffel bag on the floor. "I told Grant not to sign anything without you looking at it."
Maren looks at me, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "You told him to trust me?"
"I told him you were the only one who could handle Thorne."
She sits down, pulling a legal pad toward her. She aligns the edges of the paper with the edge of the desk, a small, precise movement that tells me she is anxious.
"Thorne can't trade him without a massive PR hit right now," she says, tapping her pen against the pad. "The fans are rallying behind the 'unified locker room' narrative we accidentally created in Denver. If Thorne moves the kid now, it looks like a punitive, front-office overreach."
"Thorne doesn't care about the fans. He cares about the board." I lean my good shoulder against the wall. "He wants to trade Grant for a veteran scorer to make a playoff push. If he can get Grant to admit to another violation, or sign a disciplinary waiver, he has his excuse."
"I'll intercept the meeting," Maren says. She writes a single line on the pad. "I will tell Thorne that as the active crisis manager, I need to be present for any disciplinary discussions regarding the player involved in the current PR protocol."
"Thorne will hate that."
"Thorne hates everything I do." She looks up at me, her expression turning serious. "But it will keep Grant safe."
"Thank you."
The silence stretches out. The business is concluded, but neither of us moves toward the door.
I look at her. She is sitting behind the heavy mahogany desk, surrounded by files and corporate strategy, looking completely untouchable. But I know exactly how she felt pressed against the wall of the service hallway. I know she isn't made of ice.
"Maren," I say quietly.
She drops the pen. It hits the legal pad with a soft click.
"Don't," she says, her voice tight. "We can't do this here, Bennett. We can't do this at all."
"I know."
"If Thorne finds out—"
"I know," I repeat, stepping away from the wall. I walk around the edge of the desk, stopping just out of her reach. "I know exactly what it costs. But I also know you didn't pull away."
She looks up at me, her eyes dark and conflicted. She hates losing control, and right now, she is losing it completely.
"It was a mistake," she whispers, though she doesn't sound convinced.
"No, it wasn't." I rest my hands on the edge of her desk, leaning down slightly so I am closer to her eye level. "A mistake is something you regret. Do you regret it?"
She stares at me. She is a woman who makes a living out of spinning the truth, but right now, she can't find a lie to give me.
"No," she admits, the word barely audible.
The admission hits me like a physical blow. It is the most dangerous thing she could have said, because it means I am not fighting this alone.
I reach out, my fingers brushing against the cuff of her navy blazer. I don't pull her closer. I just let the contact ground us both for a fraction of a second.
"I have to go," I say, my voice rough. "Coach Miller wants me in the film room."
"Bennett."
I stop and look at her.
"Your shoulder," she says, her professional tone returning, though it is slightly unsteady. "You were favoring it during the morning skate. You missed the high corner on three slap shots because you couldn't rotate."
I stare at her, genuinely surprised. "You were watching the skate?"
"I was watching you." She stands up, smoothing the front of her blazer. "You need an anti-inflammatory injection. If you don't get one before the game tomorrow, you are going to tear the muscle."
"I can't go to the team doctor. Thorne reviews the medical logs."
"I know." She reaches into the top drawer of her desk and pulls out a small, white business card.
She slides it across the polished wood toward me.
"This is a private sports clinic in downtown Portland.
The lead physician is a former client of mine from before New York.
He owes me a favor. He will give you the injection, and he will keep it off the official league records. "
I look at the card, then at her.
She is risking her own professional ethics to protect my secret. If the league finds out she facilitated off-the-books medical treatment for an active player, she will lose her license to practice sports PR permanently.
"Maren, you can't do this," I say, leaving the card on the desk. "If this gets traced back to you—"
"It won't." She picks up the card and presses it into my hand, her fingers lingering against my palm. "I protect my assets, Captain. Go to the clinic."
She pulls her hand back and sits down, opening her laptop. The conversation is over.
I look at the card in my hand. It is a lifeline, handed to me by a woman who has every reason to let me drown.
I put the card in my pocket, pick up my duffel bag, and walk out of the office.
The hallway is empty, but the air feels heavy with the weight of what just happened. Maren Whitaker didn't just give me a medical referral. She gave me her trust.
And as I walk toward the elevator, I realize that I am going to have to play the best hockey of my life for the next two weeks. Because if Marcus Thorne finds a way to tear this team apart, I am not just losing my career anymore.
I am losing her.