CHAPTER 13
MAREN
The game against the Tacoma Vipers is brutal from the moment the puck drops.
I sit in the executive box, surrounded by board members and corporate sponsors eating catered shrimp cocktail, while down on the ice, the two teams are systematically trying to destroy each other.
The Vipers are a heavy, aggressive team, and they know the Kodiaks are desperate for points to stay in the playoff race.
Bennett is playing like a man possessed. The cortisone injection has clearly masked the pain, allowing him to skate with a violent, terrifying freedom. He is throwing hits in the corners, blocking shots with his body, and clearing the crease with a physical dominance that makes the crowd roar.
But I know the truth. I know that every time he absorbs a hit, the damaged tissue in his shoulder is taking the impact. The numbness is temporary. The damage is permanent.
"Hayes is having a hell of a game," one of the board members says, leaning over the glass barrier. "Looks like he found his legs again."
I glance to my right. Marcus Thorne is sitting two seats away. He is watching the ice, his expression carefully neutral, but his jaw is tight. Bennett playing well is a problem for Thorne’s narrative.
"He is playing with a lot of energy," I say, keeping my tone strictly professional.
Thorne doesn't look at me. "Energy doesn't win playoffs, Maren. Consistency does."
I turn my attention back to the ice. The third period is winding down, the Kodiaks clinging to a one-goal lead. The Vipers dump the puck into our defensive zone. Bennett skates back to retrieve it, turning his body to shield the puck from the opposing forward bearing down on him.
The hit is massive.
The Vipers forward drives his shoulder directly into Bennett’s back, pinning him violently against the boards. The sound of the impact echoes all the way up to the executive box, a loud, sickening crack of composite sticks and heavy equipment against the acrylic glass.
Bennett goes down to one knee.
My heart stops. I grip the edge of the table in front of me, my nails biting into the wood.
The play moves up the ice, but Bennett doesn't get up immediately. He stays on one knee for three agonizing seconds, his head bowed, his right arm hanging limply at his side. The crowd goes quiet.
"Get up," I whisper, the words barely making it past my throat.
Slowly, Bennett pushes himself up using his stick in his left hand. He skates toward the bench, his stride uneven, his right shoulder visibly lower than his left. He doesn't look at the trainers. He just drops onto the wooden bench and stares straight ahead.
The Kodiaks manage to hold the lead until the final horn sounds. The crowd erupts, celebrating the crucial win, but I am already standing up, grabbing my coat and my bag.
"Excellent game," Thorne says, standing up as well. "I'll see you in the morning, Maren. We have a lot of media strategy to cover."
"I'll be there," I say, forcing a polite smile.
I leave the executive box and walk quickly toward the elevators. I don't go to my office. I take the elevator down to the ground level, bypassing the press room entirely, and walk down the concrete tunnel toward the locker room.
The post-game chaos is in full swing. Reporters are clustered outside the double doors, waiting for the media availability window to open. I show my credentials to the security guard and push through the heavy wooden doors.
The smell of sweat, wet gear, and ammonia is overwhelming. The players are shouting, the adrenaline of the win still running high. Music is blaring from a portable speaker in the corner.
I scan the room. Grant is talking animatedly to one of the other rookies. Mac is unbuckling his goalie pads, looking exhausted but happy.
Bennett isn't at his stall.
I walk past the main locker area and head toward the medical room. The door is closed. I don't knock. I push it open and step inside.
The room is empty.
Panic, cold and sharp, spikes in my chest. If he isn't in the medical room, he is hiding.
I walk back out into the hallway, moving past the weight room and the video analysis suite. At the very end of the corridor is a small, secondary equipment room, used mostly for storing extra sticks and practice jerseys. The door is slightly ajar.
I push the door open and step inside.
The room is dark, illuminated only by the ambient light spilling in from the hallway. The air smells like fresh tape and cold rubber.
Bennett is sitting on a stack of folded practice jerseys. He has taken off his chest protector and his jersey. He is wearing only his dark gray compression pants, his torso bare.
He is staring at the floor, his left hand gripping his right bicep tightly.
"Bennett," I say, my voice catching.
He looks up. His face is pale, his skin slick with sweat. The bruising on his shoulder has spread, the entire joint swollen and completely rigid.
"You shouldn't be down here," he says, his voice a low, rough rasp. "The media is outside."
"I don't care about the media." I walk over to him, dropping my bag on the floor. I stop right in front of him, looking down at the damage. "The injection wore off."
"The hit against the boards," he says, closing his eyes for a second as a wave of pain clearly hits him. "It forced the joint out of alignment. I felt it pop."
"We have to go to the hospital. We have to call Dr. Evans."
"No." He opens his eyes, looking up at me. "If I go to the hospital, it goes on the league record. Thorne finds out. The season is over."
"Your season is already over, Bennett!" I say, the fear making my voice sharp. "Look at your shoulder. You can't even lift your arm."
"I can play through it."
"You are delusional." I step closer, my hands hovering over his skin, terrified to actually touch him and cause more pain. "You are going to permanently destroy your body for a franchise that is actively trying to get rid of you."
"I'm not doing it for the franchise."
He reaches out with his left hand, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong, grounding me in the dark, quiet room.
"I'm doing it to stay," he says softly.
I look down at him. The sheer, stubborn determination in his eyes breaks my heart. He is sitting here in the dark, in agonizing pain, refusing to surrender because he thinks it is the only way to protect the people he cares about. To protect me.
"You don't have to stay like this," I whisper, dropping to my knees in front of him so we are eye level. "You don't have to break yourself to prove you are loyal."
"It's the only way I know how to play."
"Then learn a new way."
I reach up, carefully bypassing his right shoulder, and place my hands on either side of his face. His skin is hot, his jaw locked tight against the pain. I brush my thumbs over his cheekbones, forcing him to look directly at me.
"I am not going to let Thorne trade you," I say, the words a fierce, absolute promise. "I will find the leverage. I will build the strategy. But you have to let me do my job. You have to stop trying to take every hit alone."
Bennett looks at me, the exhaustion finally winning out over the adrenaline. He leans his forehead against mine, his left hand sliding around my waist to pull me closer.
"Okay," he breathes, the word a surrender.
We stay like that for a long minute, kneeling in the dark equipment room. The sounds of the locker room celebration are muffled, a world away from the quiet reality of this space.
I can feel the heat of his skin, the steady rhythm of his heart against my chest. The professional boundary is completely gone, replaced by a desperate, terrifying need to keep this man safe.
He turns his head slightly, his mouth brushing against mine. It isn't a demanding kiss like the one in the hotel hallway. It is soft, hesitant, and incredibly vulnerable. He is asking for comfort, not control.
I kiss him back, my hands sliding into his damp hair. I open my mouth for him, letting the kiss deepen, anchoring myself to him in the dark. He groans softly, his hand tightening on my waist, pulling me flush against his chest.
The desire is a sudden, heavy weight in my stomach, overriding the fear and the logic. I want to pull him closer. I want to lock the door and forget about Marcus Thorne, the media, and the entire league.
Before I can move, the sound of heavy footsteps echoes in the hallway outside.
"Hey, Cap? You in here?"
It is Mac’s voice.
Bennett freezes. He pulls back instantly, his hand dropping from my waist. The reality of where we are crashes back down on me. If the goaltender walks into this room and sees the PR manager kneeling on the floor between the captain's legs, the secret is over.
I scramble to my feet, my heart hammering in my throat. I smooth my skirt, my hands shaking.
Bennett stands up, moving slowly to accommodate the pain in his shoulder. He grabs a clean practice jersey from the stack and pulls it over his head, hiding the bruising just as the door pushes open wider.
Mac steps into the room. He stops, looking at Bennett, and then at me.
The silence is thick and incredibly dangerous.
"Ms. Whitaker," Mac says, his voice carefully neutral.
"Carter," I reply, forcing my PR mask back into place, though my voice is slightly breathless. "I was just looking for the captain. We need to go over the media strategy for tomorrow's press availability."
Mac looks at me, then looks at Bennett. He is a veteran. He has spent his life reading the ice, reading the micro-expressions of players before they shoot. He isn't stupid. He sees the flush on my cheeks, the tension in Bennett’s posture, and the fact that we are standing in a dark equipment room.
"Right," Mac says slowly. He looks back at Bennett. "Coach wants to see you before you leave, Benny. Something about the defensive pairings for the next game."
"I'll be right there," Bennett says, his voice steady.
Mac nods once. He doesn't ask any questions. He turns and walks out of the room, leaving the door open behind him.
I look at Bennett. The close call leaves me feeling entirely exposed.
"He knows," I whisper.
"Mac won't say anything," Bennett replies, picking up his duffel bag with his left hand. "He's loyal."
"Loyalty doesn't matter if Thorne checks the security cameras," I say, picking up my own bag. The text message Bennett received from Mac outside the clinic flashes in my memory. Thorne is already looking for footage.
"I'll handle Mac," Bennett says. He steps closer, his eyes intense. "Go home, Maren. I'll call you when I leave the arena."
I nod, too shaken to argue.
I walk out of the equipment room and head back down the concrete tunnel. The media is still clustered outside the locker room doors, waiting for their soundbites. I walk past them, ignoring their shouted questions, and head for the parking garage.
I get into my car and lock the doors.
I am in completely over my head. I am lying to my boss, I am hiding a massive medical secret, and I am falling in love with a man who is one bad hit away from losing his career.
I start the engine, the heater blasting cold air into the cabin.
I need to find leverage on Marcus Thorne. I need to find it fast, before he finds the security footage that proves exactly how compromised his PR manager really is.