Page 1 of Off the Ice

Part One

One

Logan

Theroarofthecrowd was deafening, exactly how I liked it. Ten seconds left on the clock, and the puck was glued to my stick like it had nowhere else to be. The boards vibrated under the pounding fists of the fans, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of screams, chants, and the occasional slurred insult.

It was electric.

“Move it, Bennett!” Coach’s gravelly yell cut through the noise, but I barely registered it. My eyes were locked on the ice, every muscle in my body wired for the play. The guy chasing me was fast, his skates digging hard into the ice as he closed the gap. I could hear the scrape of his blades over the crowd, could feel the rush of air as he stretched his stick out, reaching for the puck.

Too bad for him. I was faster.

Always have been. Always would be.

I shifted my weight to my right skate and darted left, faking just enough to make him bite. His stick swung wide, a split-second misstep that left him scrambling to recover. Not a chance. The gap widened, and I surged forward, my lungs burning as I crossed the blue line. The goalie’s eyes locked on me, wide and frantic behind his mask. He dropped low, pads snapping into position to block the bottom corners, his glove hand twitching in anticipation. Textbook reaction.

Predictable.

Sorry, bud. You’ve got no chance.

I dipped my shoulder as if I was aiming for the five-hole, and the goalie shifted, just a fraction, but it was all I needed. My wrist flicked the stick, sending the puck soaring. Time seemed to slow as it arced through the air, a black blur against the white ice. The clang of the puck hitting the crossbar was sharp and satisfying, followed immediately by the unmistakable sound of the net rippling.

Goal.

The red light flared behind the net, the buzzer blaring as the crowd erupted. For a split second, everything slowed—the puck hitting the mesh, the sharp clang of the post, the explosion of noise around me. Then it hit. A rush of pure, unfiltered adrenaline surged through my veins, electrifying every nerve in my body. My arms shot up in instinctive triumph, my breath coming hard and fast as my pulse thundered in my ears.

I turned, barely registering the deafening cheers, my grin stretching wide enough to hurt. This was why I played—the high, the euphoria, the feeling of being untouchable, invincible.

Jaymie was the first to slam into me, nearly knocking me off my skates. The impact jolted through me, but I barely felt it, too caught up in the moment. Laughter tore from my chest as the rest of the guys piled in, shoving, shouting, pounding my helmet. My body was exhausted, my muscles burning, but it didn’t matter. Right now, I felt unstoppable.

This was it. The kind of moment I’d chased since I was a kid, dreaming on backyard rinks and frozen ponds. And now, I was here, in front of thousands, the name “Bennett” on the back of my jersey roaring through the arena.

And damn, did it feel good.

“Hell of a shot, Bennett!” Jaymie shouted, his voice hoarse from yelling.

“Hell of a pass,” I shot back, clapping him on the helmet. The guys piled on, a blur of sticks and gloves as they shouted and shoved like we’d just won the Cup. The kind of chaos that made you forget everything else for a minute.

As we skated off, the announcer’s voice boomed through the arena. “Logan Bennett, ladies and gentlemen! Another game-winning goal for the Chicago Hellblades!”

I grinned and gave a quick wave to the crowd.

Perfect.

Another highlight reel moment.

Another reason for the world to believe I had it all together.

“You good, Bennett?” Jaymie asked, slapping me on the shoulder as we headed into the tunnel. “You’ve been... quiet lately.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” The smirk came easy, like it always did. Same one I used in interviews and at charity events. “Let ’em talk. I’ll give ’em something new to chew on next game.”

Jaymie arched a brow but didn’t push. He never did, and I liked that about him, we've been playing together for three years and crossed paths years before that. The last thing I needed was someone digging into shit I wasn’t ready to talk about. Hell, I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about it at all. The locker room was buzzing as the guys celebrated, but I kept my head down, going through the motions—skates off, pads off, shower. Same routine, every game. But the buzz in my pocket was a reminder I couldn’t ignore.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling through the endless texts and missed calls. Most of it was noise…reporters, PR teams, friends who wanted tickets. But one message stood out.

Call me ASAP.

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