CHAPTER 16
BENNETT
The atmosphere inside the arena is thick with the kind of nervous energy that only exists in the final two weeks before the trade deadline.
I walk down the tunnel toward the locker room, my duffel bag slung over my left shoulder. The cortisone injection from two days ago is still holding the worst of the pain at bay, but the stiffness is a constant, heavy reminder of the damage underneath.
I pass a couple of rookies near the training room. They stop talking the moment they see me, their eyes darting away. The rumors are already circulating. When the GM submits a formal request to waive the captain's no-trade clause, the entire building feels the shift in gravity.
I push through the locker room doors.
"Morning, Cap," Mac says. He is sitting at his stall, taping the blade of his goalie stick. He doesn't look up, but his voice is tight.
"Morning," I reply, walking over to my locker.
I drop my bag and start pulling off my jacket. The room is unusually quiet. The music is off, and the normal pre-practice banter is completely absent. Grant is sitting three stalls down, staring at his phone with a pale, slightly panicked expression.
I walk over to him. "What is it?"
Grant jumps, nearly dropping the phone. "Nothing. Just... Twitter."
"I told you to stay off social media," I say, keeping my voice low.
"I know, but..." Grant hesitates, then turns the screen toward me. "Someone leaked it, Benny. The trade request."
I look at the screen. It is a tweet from David Vance, the same national reporter I confronted in Denver.
Sources confirm Portland Kodiaks GM Marcus Thorne has submitted a formal request to the league to waive Captain Bennett Hayes's No-Trade Clause, citing internal disciplinary issues. The end of an era in Portland?
My teeth press together.
Thorne didn't just submit the file to the league.
He leaked the fact that he submitted it to the press.
He is forcing the league's hand, creating a public spectacle to pressure them into a quick decision.
He is also destroying my trade value, making me look like a locker room cancer so he can dump my contract for a fraction of what it's worth.
"Is it true?" Grant asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Did he really ask to waive your clause?"
"Yes," I say.
The silence in our corner of the locker room deepens. A few of the other guys are looking over now, the tension palpable.
"Why?" Grant asks, looking genuinely confused. "You took the heat for me in Denver. You haven't done anything wrong."
"It's a business, Grant." I step back. "Get your gear on. We have practice."
I walk back to my stall. I can feel Mac watching me. He finishes taping his stick, sets it against the wall, and walks over.
"Disciplinary issues?" Mac asks quietly, leaning against the metal frame of the locker next to mine. "Thorne is claiming a morality violation to void your NTC. What exactly did he find on that security footage, Benny?"
I look at Mac. He is the only guy in this room I trust completely, but I can't tell him the truth. If he knows about Maren, he becomes an accessory to the lie.
"He found me walking into the PR office," I say evenly. "He's spinning it as insubordination."
Mac studies my face. He knows it's a half-truth. He knows what he saw in the equipment room two nights ago.
"If he trades you," Mac says, his voice dropping to a low, hard register, "this locker room falls apart. The rookies are already terrified. If the captain goes down for a fabricated morality charge, nobody is safe."
"I know."
"So what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to practice," I say, pulling my practice jersey over my head. "And I'm going to let Maren Whitaker do her job."
Mac raises an eyebrow. "You're trusting corporate PR to save you?"
"I'm trusting her," I correct.
Mac holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Alright, Cap. Let's go to work."
Practice is brutal. Coach Miller runs us through high-intensity defensive drills, clearly trying to test my mobility.
I push through the drills, relying heavily on my left side, using my positioning to make up for the lack of physical power in my right shoulder.
Every time I hit the boards, the joint grinds, a sharp reminder that the cortisone is only a temporary fix.
I look up at the executive box during a water break. Thorne isn't there.
But Maren is.
She is standing near the glass, wearing a dark gray suit, her phone pressed to her ear. She is pacing back and forth, her free hand gesturing sharply as she speaks. She is fighting the war she promised to fight.
The sight of her up there, fiercely defending me while I bleed on the ice, does something strange to my chest. It isn't just desire anymore. It is a deep, anchoring certainty that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
Practice ends an hour later. I shower quickly, dress in my suit, and head for the media room.
The room is packed. The leak about the trade request has brought every local reporter and a dozen national correspondents to the arena.
I walk to the podium, the flashbulbs erupting in a blinding wave.
Maren is standing off to the side, her arms crossed over her chest. She gives me a single, sharp nod. The signal is clear: stick to the script. Give them nothing.
"Bennett, is it true that Thorne requested to waive your No-Trade Clause?" a reporter shouts before I even reach the microphone.
I adjust the microphone stand with my left hand. "I am aware of the reports circulating this morning. My focus is entirely on this team and our push for the playoffs."
"The report cited internal disciplinary issues," another reporter presses. "Have you had a falling out with the front office?"
"My relationship with the front office is professional," I reply, my voice flat and controlled. "Any discussions regarding my contract are handled internally."
"Are you asking for a trade, Bennett?"
"I have never asked for a trade. I have spent my entire career in Portland, and I intend to finish the season here."
I answer questions for ten minutes. I deflect, I pivot, and I give them absolutely nothing they can use to fuel Thorne's narrative. I am a brick wall.
"Thank you, everyone," Maren says, stepping forward to cut off the final question. "That concludes today's availability."
I step down from the podium and walk out the side door, heading toward the executive elevators.
Maren catches up to me in the hallway.
"You did perfectly," she says, her voice low as we walk. "You didn't give them a single soundbite Thorne can use."
"Did you find the leak?" I ask, pressing the button for the elevator.
"Not yet." She looks around to make sure the hallway is empty.
"I spent the entire morning on the phone with corporate contacts.
Thorne's financials are buried under three layers of shell companies.
I need access to the internal accounting server, but my credentials don't have that level of clearance. "
The elevator doors open. We step inside.
"So how do we get it?" I ask as the doors slide shut.
"I don't know yet." She leans against the back wall of the elevator, the exhaustion finally showing through her professional armor. "If I try to hack the system, Thorne will get an alert. He will fire me for corporate espionage before I even find the files."
I look at her. She is risking everything for me, and she is hitting a wall.
"Maren," I say quietly.
She looks up.
"If you can't find it, you have to let it go," I tell her. "I won't let you go down with me."
"I am not letting it go." She steps forward, her eyes flashing with that fierce, stubborn light I am rapidly falling in love with. "He is trying to destroy you, Bennett. I am not going to stand by and watch him do it."
"You might not have a choice."
The elevator chimes, the doors opening on the executive floor.
Marcus Thorne is standing directly in front of the elevator doors.
He is wearing a custom suit, holding a manila folder in his hand. He looks at me, then at Maren, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.
"Ms. Whitaker. Captain," Thorne says smoothly. "Just the two people I was looking for."
Maren steps out of the elevator, her posture instantly rigid. "Marcus. We were just finishing up the post-practice media debrief."
"I'm sure you were." Thorne steps aside, gesturing down the hallway toward his office. "My office. Both of you. Now."
I look at Maren. She gives me a microscopic nod, the professional mask locking firmly into place.
We follow Thorne down the silent, heavily carpeted hallway. He opens the door to his office and walks behind his large mahogany desk. He doesn't offer us a seat.
He drops the manila folder onto the desk.
"The league office contacted me twenty minutes ago," Thorne says, resting his hands flat on the wood. "They received my file regarding the morality violation. They are expediting the review process."
"On what grounds?" Maren asks, her voice perfectly even. "You have provided no evidence of a violation that warrants waiving a negotiated contract clause."
Thorne smiles. He opens the folder and pulls out an 8x10 glossy photograph. He turns it around and slides it across the desk.
I look at the photo.
It is a still frame from a security camera.
It is grainy, but the subjects are unmistakable.
It shows the two of us in the visitor parking lot of her apartment complex last night.
I am standing next to my truck, and she is standing in front of me.
The angle is wide, but it clearly captures the moment I reached out and touched her face before we went inside.
My blood runs cold.
He didn't just pull the footage from the arena. He hired a private investigator to follow me.
"This was taken at 9:45 PM last night," Thorne says, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "Outside Ms. Whitaker's private residence. The captain of my team, arriving at the apartment of the woman contracted to manage his public image, less than an hour after a closed-door meeting in her office."
Maren doesn't flinch. She looks at the photo, her expression completely blank.
"A photograph of a conversation in a parking lot is not a morality violation, Marcus," she says coldly. "It is proof that you are wasting franchise funds on private investigators."
"It is proof of an undisclosed, inappropriate relationship that compromises the integrity of this front office," Thorne counters, leaning forward. "And it is more than enough for the league to validate my request."
He looks at me. The triumph in his eyes is absolute.
"You have two choices, Hayes," Thorne says softly.
"You waive the No-Trade Clause voluntarily by 5:00 PM today, and I orchestrate a quiet trade to a team of my choosing.
Or, I send this photo, and the rest of the investigator's report, to David Vance.
I let the media tear both of you apart, and I let the league void your contract publicly. "
The trap has snapped shut.
I look at Maren. She is staring at the photo, her analytical mind racing, trying to find a way out of a room that has no exits.
"I'll waive the clause," I say.
"Bennett, no," Maren says sharply, turning to look at me.
"It's done, Maren." I look back at Thorne, the hatred I feel for the man burning hot and dark in my chest. "Draft the paperwork. I'll sign it."
"Excellent decision, Captain," Thorne says, sitting back in his chair. "I'll have the legal team send the documents to your agent within the hour."
I don't say another word. I turn and walk out of the office, the heavy door clicking shut behind me.
I have just surrendered the only leverage I had. I am leaving Portland. I am leaving the team I built.
But as I walk toward the elevator, the only thing I feel is a crushing, suffocating panic that I just broke the one promise I made to Maren Whitaker in the dark of her bedroom last night.