CHAPTER 15
MAREN
The morning light filtering through the bedroom window is cold and gray, a typical Portland winter sky.
I wake up slowly, the heavy weight of the duvet pressing down on me. I shift my legs, instantly feeling the solid, muscular heat of the man sleeping next to me.
Bennett is lying on his back, his left arm draped loosely over my waist. His breathing is deep and even. In the pale morning light, the dark purple bruising on his right shoulder looks even more brutal than it did last night.
I lie perfectly still, staring at the ceiling.
I am a crisis manager. My entire career is built on identifying risks, neutralizing threats, and maintaining absolute control over the narrative.
And yet, I just spent the night with the captain of the team I am currently contracted to protect, actively hiding a medical secret that could void his contract, while the General Manager is actively looking for security footage to destroy us both.
It is the definition of professional suicide.
And as I look at Bennett’s sleeping face, the lines of exhaustion finally smoothed out, I realize I don't care.
I carefully slide out from under his arm, making sure not to wake him. I grab my oversized college sweatshirt from the floor, pull it over my head, and walk out to the kitchen.
The apartment is quiet. I turn on the coffee maker, the low gurgle of the machine breaking the silence. I open my laptop on the kitchen island and pull up the Kodiaks' internal network.
If Marcus Thorne is looking for the security footage from the executive hallway, I need to know exactly what he is going to see.
I log into the administrative portal using my credentials.
The system gives me access to the arena's basic security logs, though the actual video files are restricted to Thorne and the head of security.
I check the access history for the cameras outside my office.
My stomach drops.
Thorne’s administrative account requested the file transfer at 11:45 PM last night. The system shows the file was downloaded to his local drive. He has the footage.
I close the laptop, the screen snapping shut with a sharp click.
"You're up early."
I turn around. Bennett is standing in the hallway, wearing his jeans from last night, the top button undone. He hasn't put a shirt on. He is leaning his good shoulder against the doorframe, watching me.
"I couldn't sleep," I say, pouring a cup of coffee. I don't mention the security logs. Not yet. I want him to have five minutes of peace before the war starts again.
I walk over and hand him the mug. He takes it with his left hand, his fingers brushing against mine.
"Thank you," he says, taking a slow sip. He looks around the kitchen, then back at me. "You look like you're already planning a press conference."
"I'm always planning a press conference." I lean against the island, crossing my arms over the front of the sweatshirt. "How is the shoulder?"
"Stiff. But the pain is manageable." He sets the mug down on the counter. "Maren."
"Yes?"
He steps closer, closing the distance between us. He doesn't touch me, but his presence is a physical weight in the room.
"I don't regret last night," he says, his voice low and absolute. "Whatever happens today, whatever Thorne tries to do. I don't regret it."
I look up at him. The intensity in his eyes is terrifying because it is so completely genuine. He isn't playing a game. He isn't looking for a distraction. He is anchoring himself to me.
"I don't regret it either," I reply quietly.
He reaches out, his hand sliding around the back of my neck, pulling me forward.
He kisses me, a slow, deep pressure that tastes like dark coffee and morning heat.
I close my eyes, letting myself lean into him, memorizing the solid reality of him before we have to walk back into the arena and pretend we are strangers.
My phone vibrates violently against the granite countertop.
We break apart. I pick up the phone. It is a text from Vivian.
Vivian: Call me right now. It's about Thorne.
I hit the call button, putting the phone on speaker and setting it on the island.
"Vivian, what is it?" I ask.
"I just got off the phone with a contact at the league office," Vivian says, her voice tight with professional urgency. "Thorne submitted a formal request this morning to waive Bennett's no-trade clause."
Bennett stops moving.
"On what grounds?" I ask, my heart hammering against my ribs. "He can't waive a negotiated clause without the player's consent unless there is a breach of contract."
"He is claiming a breach of the morality and conduct clause," Vivian replies. "He submitted a file to the league. He says he has proof that the captain is engaged in an inappropriate, undisclosed relationship with a contracted vendor that compromises the integrity of the front office."
The air in the kitchen turns to ice.
Thorne didn't just watch the security footage. He weaponized it. He isn't going to fire me quietly. He is going to use me as the excuse to force Bennett out of Portland before the deadline, framing it as a disciplinary trade to protect the franchise.
"Did the league accept the file?" I ask, my voice sounding entirely too calm for the panic exploding in my chest.
"They are reviewing it," Vivian says. "Maren, if the league validates his claim, they will void the no-trade clause. Thorne can send Bennett to any team in the league by Friday. And your firm will be blacklisted for an ethical violation."
"I understand. Thank you, Vivian."
I end the call. The silence in the apartment is deafening.
I look at Bennett. He is staring at the phone, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is jumping beneath his skin.
"He's using you to get rid of me," Bennett says, his voice dangerously quiet.
"He is trying to." I pick up my laptop, my analytical mind finally overriding the panic. I open the screen and start typing rapidly. "He is banking on the fact that we will panic. He wants you to accept the trade quietly to protect my reputation."
"I will," Bennett says immediately.
I stop typing. I look up at him, the anger flashing hot and bright.
"Excuse me?"
"If I accept the trade, the league drops the investigation into you," Bennett says, his tactical mind already calculating the sacrifice. "Thorne gets what he wants, and your firm survives."
"No." I slam my hand flat against the desk. "We had this conversation last night, Bennett. You are not falling on your sword for me."
"Maren, if the league blacklists you—"
"They won't blacklist me if Thorne doesn't have a job by Friday."
Bennett stops. He looks at me, his brow furrowing. "What are you talking about?"
"Marcus Thorne is a corporate bully. He uses leverage to force people into submission.
" I turn the laptop around so Bennett can see the screen.
It is a spreadsheet of the Kodiaks' recent sponsor contracts.
"But bullies always leave a paper trail.
If he is desperate enough to invent a morality violation to trade his captain, it means he is hiding something much worse in the financials. "
"You want to investigate the GM."
"I want to destroy him," I correct, my voice cold. "He threatened my career. He threatened your career. I am going to find the leak in his front office, and I am going to feed it to the league before they even open his file on us."
Bennett stares at me. The protective instinct in his eyes is warring with a sudden, profound respect. He is looking at me the way he looks at a defenseman who just cleared the crease with a massive hit.
"What do you need me to do?" he asks.
"I need you to go to the arena," I say, pulling my phone back toward me. "I need you to act exactly like you do every day. Go to practice. Talk to the media. Do not confront Thorne. Do not give him any reason to suspend you for insubordination."
"And what are you going to do?"
"I am going to call every contact I have in corporate PR," I say, scrolling through my contacts list. "I am going to find the whistleblower in Thorne's accounting department. And then I am going to burn his narrative to the ground."
Bennett reaches across the island. He grips the back of my neck, pulling me forward, and kisses me hard. It is a kiss built on adrenaline and absolute partnership.
"Be careful," he says, pulling back.
"I'm a crisis manager, Bennett," I say, a sharp, humorless smile touching my lips. "I don't do careful. I do damage."
He grabs his shirt and his duffel bag, heading for the door.
I watch him leave, the heavy click of the deadbolt echoing in the quiet apartment. The war has officially started. Marcus Thorne thinks he can use my heart as leverage to break the captain of his team.
He is about to find out exactly why they hired me to handle the crises in the first place.
I do not go back to bed.
Instead, I sit at my kitchen table until dawn, the city outside the window turning from black to gray, and write three plans.
Plan A: keep Bennett in Portland without exposing the relationship.
Plan B: preserve evidence if Marcus moves him.
Plan C: protect my name if both men decide my future without me.
The fact that Plan C exists makes something inside me go cold and useful.
At six, I shower, dress in a navy suit that has never failed me, and put the first piece of Bennett's tape in a small envelope at the back of my bag.
Not a keepsake.
A reminder.
Men have mistaken my silence for weakness before. They tend to dislike the correction.
By seven, Vivian has texted three times.
Vivian: Do not threaten anyone before breakfast.
Vivian: That was advice, not a dare.
Vivian: I know you read these.
I answer with a photo of the organized folders.
She sends back: Terrifying. Proud. Eat something.
I toast half a bagel and burn it. I eat it anyway over the sink, wearing silk trousers and fury, because apparently war also requires carbohydrates.
The absurdity helps. Not much, but enough.
There is something grounding about chewing blackened bread while plotting against a man in a custom suit. It reminds me that crises are built out of ordinary objects too: a phone, a receipt, a badge swipe, a breakfast you do not have time to replace.
By the time I leave, the apartment smells like smoke and espresso, and I feel almost human enough to be dangerous.