Page 2 of Off the Ice

My entire body clenched.

My agent wasn’t the kind of guy to mince words, or elaborate.

I shoved the phone back into my bag. Whatever it was could wait. Right now, I needed a stiff drink and at least a few hours to pretend everything was fine. To forget that every time I stepped off the ice, the weight of the world came crashing down again.

Two

Ava

Thenewsroombuzzedwiththe frantic energy that always followed a big game. TVs mounted on every wall flickered with looping highlights, frozen snapshots of midair goals, bone-crushing hits, and roaring crowds. The anchors’ voices overlapped in an endless stream of analysis, their words competing with the rapid-fire tapping of keyboards and the shrill ring of desk phones.

A reporter two desks over shouted into his headset, his voice cracking as he argued with someone on the other end. “I don’t care what his agent said—get me a quote, now!”

Near the copy desk, a junior staffer wrestled with the printer, its blinking red error light casting an ominous glow across her face. Paper crunched and crumpled in the tray, the machine’s grinding groans nearly drowned out by the endless hum of fluorescent lights. The air smelled like too much coffee and not enough sleep. A forgotten takeout box sat precariously on the edge of a filing cabinet, its greasy contents threatening to tip with every vibration from the stomping feet and wheeled chairs. Someone had shoved a half-eaten donut onto the communal counter next to a stack of sticky Post-its, the powdered sugar leaving ghostly fingerprints everywhere. I tuned it all out, my eyes glued to my laptop screen.

Logan Bennett. His name dominated the sports blogs, trending alongside phrases like game-winning goal and glaring controversy. The clip of him sinking the puck into the net was on a loop, but so was another one—a blurry photo of him sitting courtside at a Vegas casino.

A headline scrolled beneath it: NHL Star Under Fire in Sex Worker Scandal.

I tapped my pen against the desk, biting the inside of my cheek. Of course it was Bennett. He was the poster boy for everything I hated about professional athletes- arrogant, overpaid, untouchable. And now he was all anyone could talk about.

“Carlisle!” my boss barked from across the room, his voice cutting through the newsroom din like a whip. “You’ve seen this, right?”

I didn’t need to look up to know it was Frank Roswell, managing editor and reigning champion of perpetual bad moods. He strode toward my desk with his usual bulldozer energy, a coffee-stained tie flapping against his rumpled shirt. His gut strained against the buttons, and his thinning hair was combed over in a way that wasn’t fooling anyone. The man had the charm of a thunderstorm and the patience of a wasp trapped in a soda can.

I leaned back in my chair, finally meeting his sharp, beady-eyed stare. “Hard to miss it. It’s everywhere.”

“Well, you’re not just seeing it—you’re writing about it.” He slapped a stack of papers onto my desk with all the finesse of a drunk lumberjack.

“I want the full story. Bennett’s not talking to anyone, but you’ll get him to crack.”

I arched a brow, keeping my voice cool. “And why’s that? Because I’m just so charming?”

“No, because you don’t take no for an answer.” He smirked like that was a compliment. “You’re my best reporter, Carlisle. If anyone can dig up dirt on Bennett, it’s you.”

I pushed my chair back, standing just enough to level him with a glare. “The name’s Ava Carlisle, not just Carlisle. The least you can do is pretend I’m a human being.”

Frank blinked, his mouth half-open like he was trying to decide if I was joking.

I wasn’t.

“Fine. Ava Carlisle.” His tone was as sour as yesterday’s coffee. “Get to work.”

“Flattering,” I muttered, dropping back into my chair as he started walking away. He stopped a few steps later, tossing one last grenade over his shoulder.

“Don’t screw this up.”

I exhaled slowly, waiting until he was out of earshot before muttering, “Asshole.”

The stack of papers he’d dumped on my desk was a haphazard mix of articles, gossip columns, and official NHL statements. It was everything the media knew about Logan Bennett’s so-called scandal—and none of it was enough to write the kind of story my boss wanted. I didn’t have facts. I had rumors. Speculation. Headlines designed to stir the pot without saying anything of substance.

If I wanted the truth, I’d have to get it from the source.

My stomach churned at the thought. Not because I was intimidated—far from it. But athletes like Bennett were the reason I didn’t trust this world. My dad had been one of them. A rising basketball star until alcohol and bad decisions dragged him down. He’d spent the last two decades as a cautionary tale, his trophies gathering dust in a box long since forgotten. I swallowed the lump in my throat and shoved the papers aside. I didn’t have time for nostalgia. This wasn’t personal. It was a job. And if Logan Bennett thought he could charm his way out of this, he was about to learn that I wasn’t like the rest of his adoring fans.

Logan

“You need a complete overhaul, Logan. The good-boy package,” Andrew said, his tone as sharp as his designer suit. He leaned back in the plush leather chair across from me, swirling a glass of sparkling water like it was whiskey. His office was every bit the stereotype of a high-powered sports agent, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the Chicago skyline, a sleek mahogany desk that probably cost more than my first car, and framed photos of his clients lining the walls. Most of them were smiling alongside championship trophies. My photo was there too, right in the middle, frozen in the act of hoisting my first, and only Stanley Cup.

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