CHAPTER 14
BENNETT
The drive from the arena to Maren’s apartment complex takes exactly twenty-two minutes. I spend all of them checking my rearview mirror.
Mac’s warning about Thorne pulling the security footage from the executive hallway is playing on a loop in my head.
I know exactly what the cameras captured.
They captured me walking into Maren’s office and closing the door.
They captured me walking out twenty minutes later.
It isn't definitive proof of anything, but Marcus Thorne doesn't need definitive proof.
He just needs enough leverage to force a confession.
I pull my truck into the visitor parking lot of her building, killing the engine.
The building is modern, secure, and completely anonymous. It is exactly the kind of place a crisis manager would choose to live. I grab my duffel bag from the passenger seat, ignoring the sharp, residual ache in my right shoulder, and walk toward the lobby.
Maren buzzes me up immediately.
I take the elevator to the fifth floor. When the doors open, she is already standing in the hallway outside her apartment.
She has changed out of the suit she wore to the game, replacing it with a pair of soft gray sweatpants and an oversized college sweatshirt.
Her hair is down, falling loosely over her shoulders.
She looks exhausted, human, and incredibly beautiful.
"Did anyone see you?" she asks, stepping back to let me inside.
"No." I walk into the apartment, dropping my bag near the door. "I parked in the visitor lot. No cameras in the stairwell."
Maren closes the door and engages the deadbolt, the heavy metallic click echoing in the quiet apartment.
The space is exactly what I expected. It is impeccably clean, decorated in neutral tones, with a massive wall of windows overlooking the city. There is a stack of legal files on the kitchen island and a half-empty bottle of red wine sitting next to a single glass.
"Mac told me about the security footage," I say, turning to face her.
Maren stops near the kitchen island. She crosses her arms over her chest, a defensive posture she uses when she is trying to process bad news.
"I know," she says. "He texted me too. He wanted to make sure I understood the exposure."
"He's trying to protect us."
"He's trying to warn us that we are out of time.
" She walks over to the island and picks up the wine glass, taking a slow sip.
"If Thorne reviews that footage, he will see you going into my office.
He will see the timeline. He will connect it to the fact that I intercepted his meeting with Grant.
It won't take him long to figure out that we are coordinating. "
"Let him figure it out. He can't prove anything."
"He doesn't have to prove it to the league, Bennett.
He just has to prove it to the board." Maren sets the glass down, her hand trembling slightly.
"If he tells the board that the PR manager is sleeping with the captain she is supposed to be managing, they will fire me tomorrow.
And they will let him trade you the day after. "
The reality of the situation settles over the room, cold and absolute.
I walk across the living room, stopping on the opposite side of the kitchen island. I look at her. The fear in her eyes isn't for her career. The fear is that she is going to lose the war against Thorne, and she is going to lose me in the process.
"I won't let him fire you," I say quietly.
"You can't stop him."
"I can." I rest my hands on the cool granite countertop. "I can go to Thorne tomorrow. I can tell him I'll waive my no-trade clause. I'll accept a trade anywhere he wants to send me, as long as he leaves you and Grant alone."
Maren stares at me. The color drains completely from her face.
"No," she says, the word sharp and immediate.
"Maren, it's the only leverage I have left."
"I said no!" She slams her hand flat against the counter, the sound cracking like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
"You are not doing this. You are not going to fall on your sword for me.
Do you hear me? If you walk into his office and offer to be traded, I will walk out of this building and never speak to you again. "
She is furious. It is the same fury I saw in the service hallway at the gala, but this time, there is a desperate edge of panic underneath it. She is terrified of the self-sacrificing instinct she diagnosed on the very first day we met.
I walk around the island.
She doesn't retreat. She stands her ground, her chin lifted, her eyes burning with a fierce, protective anger.
I stop right in front of her. I reach out and take her hand, the one she just slammed against the granite. Her knuckles are slightly red. I trace my thumb over the skin, a slow, grounding motion.
"I'm trying to protect you," I say, my voice dropping to a rough whisper.
"I don't want your protection," she replies, her voice trembling. "I want your partnership. I want you to stay here and fight him with me."
"If I stay, he destroys your reputation. He'll do exactly what your client in New York did."
"He can try." She steps closer, the space between us vanishing. She tilts her head up, her eyes locking onto mine. "I am not the same woman I was in New York, Bennett. I know how to fight back now. But I can't do it if you surrender before the war even starts."
I look down at her. She is asking me to trust her with my career, my reputation, and my future. She is asking me to let go of the only defense mechanism I have ever known.
"Okay," I say softly.
Maren lets out a shaky breath, the tension in her shoulders finally breaking. She leans forward, resting her forehead against my chest.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her flush against me. I bury my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the faint trace of the cold Portland rain. The physical reality of holding her in a quiet, safe room, far away from the cameras and the ice, is overwhelming.
She slides her arms around my waist, her hands resting flat against my lower back.
"How is the shoulder?" she asks, her voice muffled against my hoodie.
"It hurts," I admit. It is the first time I have told the truth about the pain without being forced to.
Maren lifts her head. She looks at me, her expression softening into something incredibly tender. She reaches up, her fingers lightly brushing the fabric of my hoodie over my right collarbone.
"Take it off," she says quietly.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second, the instinct to hide the damage still deeply ingrained. But I look at her eyes, and the instinct fades.
I step back, grab the hem of the hoodie, and pull it over my head. I drop it onto one of the barstools. I am wearing a plain black t-shirt underneath. I pull that off too, tossing it next to the hoodie.
Maren sucks in a breath.
The bruising is worse than it was in Denver. The hit against the boards tonight caused the blood to pool heavily around the joint, turning the skin a deep, ugly shade of purple and black. The swelling makes the entire right side of my chest look distorted.
She reaches out, her fingers hovering an inch above the bruised skin. She doesn't touch it. She traces the outline of the damage in the air, her eyes tracking the path of the inflammation.
"You can't take another hit like that," she whispers.
"I know."
She drops her hand, her gaze shifting from my shoulder to my face. The vulnerability in the room shifts, transferring from my physical injury to the heavy, unspoken desire hanging between us.
We are completely alone. There are no security cameras. There are no reporters. There is no Marcus Thorne.
Maren steps closer. She places her hands flat against the center of my chest, her palms warm against my skin.
"I assess risk for a living," she says, repeating the words she spoke in the service hallway. Her voice is low, steady, and completely certain. "And right now, the only thing I am afraid of is you walking out that door."
I reach up and cup her face, my thumbs tracing the line of her jaw. "I'm not going anywhere."
I lean down and kiss her.
It isn't hesitant. It isn't desperate. It is a slow, deliberate claiming of the space between us.
She opens her mouth for me instantly, her hands sliding up my chest to wrap around my neck.
She is careful, incredibly careful, to keep her weight anchored on my left side, avoiding the injured shoulder entirely.
I walk her backward until her lower back hits the edge of the kitchen island.
I break the kiss, my breathing ragged. I look down at her, my hands resting on her hips. Her lips are swollen, her eyes dark and heavy with desire.
"Maren," I say, my voice rough. "If we do this, there is no going back to just managing a crisis."
"I don't want to go back," she replies, her hands sliding down my back, pulling me flush against her. "I want you."
The last thread of my control snaps.
I lift her, my hands gripping her waist, and set her on the edge of the granite countertop. She wraps her legs around my hips, pulling me into the space between her thighs. The friction of her sweatpants against my jeans is a sudden, intense heat.
I kiss her again, harder this time, my tongue sweeping into her mouth. She tastes like red wine and heat. She arches her back, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
I slide my hands under the hem of her oversized sweatshirt, my palms flattening against the bare skin of her stomach. She shivers, a sharp intake of breath breaking against my mouth.
I pull back slightly, my forehead resting against hers.
"Bedroom," I grind out, the word barely making it past my throat.
Maren nods, her eyes heavy. She unwraps her legs from my waist and slides off the counter. She takes my left hand and leads me down a short hallway to her bedroom.
The room is dark, lit only by the ambient glow of the city lights filtering through the large window. The bed is large, covered in a heavy white duvet.
She stops at the edge of the bed and turns to face me.
She reaches down, grabs the hem of her sweatshirt, and pulls it over her head. She drops it on the floor. She is wearing a simple black lace bra underneath.
I look at her, the sheer beauty of her stealing the breath from my lungs. She is strong, brilliant, and completely terrifying. And she is choosing me.
I step forward, my hands settling on her waist. I lean down and press my mouth against the curve of her neck, my lips trailing over the pulse point beating rapidly beneath her skin. She lets out a soft, broken sigh, her hands coming up to grip my shoulders.
She remembers the injury. Her right hand shifts instantly, sliding down to grip my bicep instead of the bruised joint.
The care in the movement, the constant, subconscious protection she is offering me, completely undoes me.
"I've got you," she whispers, her fingers digging into my arm.
"I know," I say, lifting my head to look at her.
I reach around to her back, my fingers finding the clasp of her bra. I unhook it, the lace falling away. I push the straps down her arms, letting the garment drop to the floor.
Maren reaches for the button of my jeans.
The rest of the clothes disappear in a rush of heat and urgency. I guide her backward until she falls onto the mattress, following her down. I keep my weight braced on my left forearm, hovering over her, my right arm tucked safely against my side.
She looks up at me, her hair spread out over the white pillows, her eyes dark and completely focused on mine.
"Bennett," she breathes.
I lower my head and kiss her, my body finally covering hers. The physical connection is a shock to the system, a deep, grounding heat that burns away the cold reality of the last month.
There is no pain in the room. There is no Marcus Thorne. There is only the slide of her skin against mine, the sound of her breath catching in the quiet apartment, and the absolute certainty that I will burn the entire league to the ground before I let anyone take this away from me.