Page 17 of Off the Ice

“Frank’s looking for you,” she said, her tone somewhere between a warning and pity. “He’s been pacing since he read your article.”

I nodded, already bracing myself. “Thanks, Amber.”

My thoughts drifted to the article I’d written the night before. It had been late when I finally hit submit, the kind of late where the city was quiet, and the only light in my apartment came from the glow of my laptop screen. But it had been good—damn good. I’d captured the energy of the game, the camaraderie of the team, and the way Logan Bennett commanded attention on and off the ice. It wasn’t just a game recap; it was a glimpse into the heart of the Hellblades. Sitting glass-side had given me a perspective I couldn’t have gotten anywhere else, and I’d poured that perspective into every line.

For once, I’d felt like the kind of journalist I’d always wanted to be—not just chasing clicks but telling a story that mattered. The kind of story that made people stop and feel something, even if only for a moment. So, yeah, I was proud of it. And maybe that was why my stomach churned now, knowing Frank would probably tear it apart anyway. To him, it wasn’t about the story—it was about the scandal. The juice. The stuff that made headlines, whether it was true or not.

By the time I reached Frank’s office, I didn’t need to knock. The door was open, and Frank was leaning back in his chair, a printed copy of my article in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. His tie was already askew, and his expression was that familiar mix of annoyed and unimpressed.

“Carlisle,” he barked, motioning me in. “Close the door.”

“Here we go,” I muttered under my breath, squaring my shoulders before stepping inside.

I did as he asked, sitting in the chair across from his desk. “You wanted to see me?”

He slapped the paper down in front of him. “What is this?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “It’s the article you assigned me. The one about the Hellblades’ game.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “This is fluff. Feel-good bullshit about teamwork and chemistry. I don’t need a game recap—I can get that from a box score. What I need is the juice, Carlisle. Where’s the dirt? The gambling details? The behind-the-scenes chaos?”

I stiffened. “That wasn’t the story I set out to write.”

Frank leaned forward, his beady eyes narrowing. “That’s the story we need. The city doesn’t care about passes and goals—they care about scandal. You’ve got Bennett on a leash, so use him. Get him to crack. I want something that sells.”

“He’s not on a leash,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I’m not going to make things up just to satisfy some clickbait quota.”

Frank smirked, like I’d just told a joke only he found funny. “Spare me the journalistic integrity speech. You want to climb the ladder, don’t you? Make a name for yourself? Then give me something that’ll make readers talk.”

“I’m working on it,” I said evenly, though my hands tightened in my lap. “But I’m not going to compromise my integrity for a cheap headline.”

“Integrity doesn’t pay the bills, Carlisle,” he shot back. “You’ve got two weeks. If you don’t come up with something better, I’ll find someone who will.”

The dismissal was clear. I stood, biting back the dozen things I wanted to say. Arguing with Frank was like arguing with a brick wall—you’d just end up with a headache. As I stepped out of his office, Amber caught my eye from her desk, raising her eyebrows in silent question. I shook my head, letting out a frustrated sigh. Back at my desk, I stared at my open laptop, Frank’s words echoing in my mind. Two weeks. That was all the time I had to find something that would satisfy him without betraying my own standards.

I sat at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop. No matter how many times I tried to refocus, my mind kept wandering back to Frank’s ultimatum and the impossible balancing act it created.

Before I could overthink it, I grabbed my phone and typed out a quick text to Logan.

Ava

What are you doing tonight?

It felt like a dangerous text to send. Too casual. Too... open. But I needed something—anything—to shift my focus, and Logan had a way of keeping me on my toes.

My phone buzzed almost immediately.

Logan

Is this an attempt at a pre scheduled booty call?

Very funny.

I thought so. But seriously, I’m heading to my grandad’s. Why?

I paused, caught off guard. For all his cocky swagger and playful deflections, I hadn’t expected that.

Your grandad’s?

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