CHAPTER 11
MAREN
The executive suite of the Portland Kodiaks is designed to intimidate anyone who walks through the heavy glass doors. The carpets are thick enough to swallow the sound of footsteps, the lighting is meticulously controlled, and the receptionist guards the inner offices like a highly paid sentry.
Grant Evans is standing in the hallway outside Thorne's door. He is wearing his team tracksuit, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other. He looks like a college kid waiting outside the principal's office, not a multi-million-dollar professional athlete.
"Maren," Grant says, his voice dropping in relief when he sees me. "I didn't know if you were actually going to come."
"I told Bennett I would handle it," I say, stopping next to him. I adjust the cuffs of my blazer. "Do exactly what I tell you in there. If Thorne asks a direct question about your contract or your behavior off the ice, you look at me before you answer. Understood?"
"Yeah. Understood."
I reach out and push Thorne's door open without knocking.
Thorne is sitting behind his desk, reviewing a stack of printed emails. He looks up, his expression instantly hardening when he sees me standing next to Grant.
"Ms. Whitaker," Thorne says, his voice dangerously quiet. "I don't recall inviting you to this meeting."
"As the active Crisis Manager for the franchise, my contract stipulates that I must be present for any disciplinary discussions regarding a player currently under active PR protocol," I reply smoothly, stepping into the office and gesturing for Grant to follow.
"Grant is still in the middle of his rehabilitation tour.
I need to ensure that internal discipline doesn't conflict with our external messaging. "
Thorne stares at me. He knows I am using the fine print of my contract to corner him, and he hates it.
"Sit down," Thorne says, gesturing to the two leather chairs in front of his desk.
Grant sits down quickly. I take the chair next to him, crossing my legs and resting my legal pad on my knee.
"I wanted to speak with you about your future with this franchise, Grant," Thorne begins, ignoring me entirely.
"The press conference in Denver bought you some goodwill with the fans, but the board is still concerned about your maturity.
We are making a push for the playoffs, and I need to know that my second-line center isn't going to be a liability. "
"I'm focused on the ice, Mr. Thorne," Grant says, his voice slightly unsteady.
"I'm glad to hear it." Thorne slides a single sheet of paper across the desk.
It is a formal, printed document with the Kodiaks logo at the top.
"Because of the severity of the curfew violation and the sponsor conflict, the front office requires you to sign a probationary addendum to your contract.
It simply states that any further violations of the morality clause, no matter how minor, will result in an immediate suspension without pay, and gives the franchise the right to terminate your contract without severance. "
Grant looks at the paper, then looks at me, panic flaring in his eyes.
I don't look at the paper. I look at Thorne.
"He isn't signing that," I say.
"This is a standard disciplinary measure, Maren," Thorne counters, his tone patronizing. "It is an internal matter between the General Manager and the player."
"It is a trap," I correct him, keeping my voice perfectly level.
"You are asking a twenty-three-year-old rookie to sign away his union protections.
If he signs this, you can suspend him for being five minutes late to a morning skate, and you can void his contract before the trade deadline without paying him out. "
Thorne’s jaw tightens. "He broke the rules. There are consequences."
"He paid the fine dictated by the league," I say. "The public apology was issued. The sponsor conflict is being resolved through my office. You do not have the legal or contractual grounds to force a probationary addendum on him without his union representative present."
I pick up the piece of paper from the desk, fold it exactly in half, and slide it back across the polished wood toward Thorne.
"If you want to discipline him further, Marcus, you will have to do it through the official league channels," I say. "Which means you will have to explain to the board why you are actively trying to devalue your own top prospect two weeks before the deadline."
Thorne looks at the folded paper, then slowly raises his eyes to meet mine. The mask of the polished executive slips for a fraction of a second, revealing the absolute ruthlessness underneath.
He knows I have outmaneuvered him. If he pushes this, Vivian Price will have a field day with the union lawyers, and it will leak to the press that the Kodiaks' GM is trying to extort his own players.
"You are playing a very dangerous game, Maren," Thorne says softly. "You are supposed to be protecting the franchise. Instead, you are acting like a glorified agent for a kid who doesn't know how to act like a professional."
"I am protecting the franchise," I reply. "I am protecting it from a PR disaster that would occur if the media found out the front office was trying to void a rookie's contract illegally."
I stand up, buttoning my blazer.
"Grant, we're done here," I say.
Grant stands up immediately, practically sprinting for the door.
"Ms. Whitaker," Thorne calls out as I turn to leave.
I look back at him.
"I suggest you spend less time worrying about Mr. Evans's contract, and more time worrying about your own," Thorne says, leaning back in his chair. "Because if you continue to obstruct my management of this roster, I will find a crisis manager who understands who signs the checks."
"I understand perfectly who signs the checks, Marcus," I say. "I also understand how much it costs to replace a PR firm in the middle of a crisis. Have a good afternoon."
I walk out of the office, pulling the heavy door shut behind me.
Grant is waiting near the elevators, looking pale but incredibly relieved.
"Thank you," he says, his voice dropping. "Benny said you were the only one who could handle him, but I didn't think you would actually tell him no."
"Don't thank me, Grant. Just don't give him another reason to call you into that office." I press the button for the elevator. "Keep your head down, play hockey, and stay out of VIP rooms."
"I will. I promise."
The elevator arrives, and Grant gets in, heading down to the locker room level.
I walk back to my office. The adrenaline from the confrontation is fading, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity. Thorne is going to retaliate. I just took away his leverage over Grant, which means he is going to look for another target.
And I know exactly who that target is going to be.
I sit down at my desk and open my laptop, but my focus is entirely broken. The memory of the service hallway at the gala pushes its way to the front of my mind. The heat of Bennett’s hands on my face. The desperate, consuming weight of his kiss.
I told him I assess risk for a living. I told him I knew what I was doing.
It was a lie.
I have absolutely no idea what I am doing. I am actively antagonizing the man who controls my contract to protect a hockey player who is determined to destroy his own career. I am breaking every professional boundary I spent two years building.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
I pick it up. It is a text message from an unknown number.
Clinic appointment is at 8:00 PM tonight. Back entrance.
It is Bennett. He actually took the card. He is actually going to get the injection.
I stare at the screen, a wave of relief washing over me. He listened to me. He is finally letting someone else help him carry the weight.
I type a quick reply.
I'll meet you there.
I hit send before I can overthink it. It is a terrible idea. If anyone sees the PR manager of the Kodiaks walking into a private medical clinic with the team captain after hours, the scandal will be impossible to spin.
But as I lock my phone and drop it into my bag, I know I am going to go anyway.
Because the only thing more dangerous than Marcus Thorne finding out about us, is Bennett Hayes sitting in a doctor's office alone, convincing himself that he has to survive the pain by himself.
Before I leave, I open the folder marked HAYES and add one note at the top.
Medical risk equals trade leverage.
The phrase is ugly. It is also true. If Marcus can prove the shoulder is worse than Bennett admits, he can turn concern into contract strategy. If he cannot prove it, he can still suggest it loudly enough that other teams lower their offers and Portland calls it market reality.
I print Bennett's public stat sheet and place it beside the private timeline I built from observation: missed rotation, shortened follow-through, left-side compensation, visible pallor after contact. It is not a diagnosis. It is pattern recognition.
That is what I do for a living. I see what people hope will stay scattered.
My phone screen lights with another media alert. I do not open it. For once, the public noise can wait.
The private danger is wearing a compression shirt and pretending a ruined shoulder is a personality trait.
The appointment address Bennett sent me is not the team facility. That matters. A private sports medicine clinic two exits from the arena means he is paying for answers the franchise cannot quietly own. It also means he is more scared than he will admit.
I add the address to my notes, then delete it from the visible screen.
If someone takes a photograph over my shoulder, let them capture an empty field.
I am learning Marcus's game fast enough to hate how useful it is.
I also know the cost of learning it too well.
If I start thinking like Marcus for too long, I risk becoming fluent in cruelty instead of strategy. So I write one more note before I leave: win clean, or do not call it winning. The sentence looks naive on the page. I keep it anyway. Naive is better than hollow.
That is the private humiliation of competence: sometimes you learn the villain's method because surviving him requires fluency.
I refuse to confuse fluency with surrender.
I put my phone away, take my keys from the bowl by the door, and step back into the rain before I can talk myself into safer behavior.