Page 20 of Off the Ice

As the evening wound down, Ava helped me clear the table while Grandad dozed off in his armchair. The easy rhythm of the night caught me off guard—no cameras, no scrutiny, just stories and laughter. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe.

“You’re good with him,” Ava said softly, rinsing a plate in the sink.

“He raised me,” I said, shrugging. “It’s the least I can do.”

She nodded, her hazel eyes lingering on me for a moment before she turned away. “Still. It’s nice to see.”

Her words stayed with me as I drove her back to her apartment, the quiet between us filled with something I couldn’t quite name. The city blurred past outside the windows, its glow softer now as the evening wound down. Normally, I didn’t mind silence—it was rare in my world, and I’d learned to appreciate it. But this silence? It felt different. Heavier. Like there were things left unsaid hanging in the air between us.

Ava stared out the window, her chin resting lightly in her hand. The passing streetlights cast shadows across her face, catching the thoughtful furrow of her brow and the way her lips pressed together like she was deep in her own head.

“You’re quiet,” I said, breaking the silence.

She glanced at me, her hazel eyes sharp even in the dim light. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” I teased, trying to keep it light. “What about?”

She hesitated, her gaze drifting back to the window. “Your grandad. He reminds me of my dad in some ways. Before... everything.” she waved her hand in the air as if I had a clue what she was talking about, but I didn’t push her to elaborate. She’d mentioned her dad once or twice in passing but always with the kind of tone that made it clear the subject was off-limits. Instead, I nodded. “He’s a good guy. Stubborn as hell, but good.”

Her lips curved into a small smile. “I can see that.”

We pulled up in front of her building, the dim light from the streetlamp casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalk. I put the car in park but didn’t move to unlock the doors right away.

“Thanks for coming,” I said after a moment. “It meant a lot to him. And... to me.”

Her brows lifted slightly, like she hadn’t expected that. “It wasn’t what I expected, but... I’m glad I did. Your grandad’s great. And the garlic knots didn’t hurt.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Told you. Magic.”

She reached for the door handle but paused, glancing back at me. “You’re different when you’re with him, you know.”

“Different how?” I asked, leaning back in my seat.

“Less...” She waved a hand vaguely, searching for the word. “Performative. Like you’re not trying to prove anything.”

Her words hit harder than I expected, landing somewhere between a compliment and a challenge. I nodded, not trusting myself to respond without saying too much.

“Good night, Logan,” she said softly, slipping out of the car.

“Night, Carlisle,” I replied, watching as she climbed the steps to her building. She didn’t look back, but I stayed until the door shut behind her, the faint click echoing louder in my mind than it had any right to.

The drive home was quiet, the city lights fading as I left her neighborhood behind.

Thirteen

Ava

ThemomentIsteppedinto my apartment, the familiar creak of the door and the hum of my refrigerator greeted me. Normally, those sounds grounded me. They reminded me of where I stood, on solid footings, in control of my own world. But tonight, they felt... off. Like everything was too quiet, and the noise in my head was too loud. Spending time with Logan and his grandpa had me headed into a tail spin.

I set my bag down on the tiny kitchen table and leaned against the counter, staring at the half-empty coffee mug I’d left behind that morning. My laptop sat open on the couch, the screen dark except for the faint glow of the cursor blinking in an unfinished document. I’d planned to come home and dive into research—Logan’s career stats, the gambling rumors, anything that might help me untangle this story. But instead, all I could think about was the smell of garlic knots and the sound of Grandad’s laugh.

Logan Bennett. Just when I thought I had him figured out, he went and threw me for a loop.

He wasn’t supposed to be like this—kind, patient, unguarded. The way he talked about his grandma, the way he looked at his grandad like the man hung the moon... it wasn’t the image I’d built of him in my head. It wasn’t the arrogant, cocky athlete I’d been determined to write off. And yet, there he was. Sitting across from me at that worn dining table, telling me stories about falling six times in his first hockey game, only to get back up and score twice. Laughing when his grandad teased him about his temper. Watching me with those warm, knowing eyes that seemed to see more than I wanted him to.

I shook my head, pushing off the counter. This wasn’t supposed to matter. This was a job. A story. And Logan Bennett was just a subject—a means to an end. The byline, the recognition, the paycheck that could finally start chipping away at my dad’s medical bills. That’s what mattered.

Not the way he’d said,“Thanks for coming. It meant a lot to him. And... to me.”

---