Page 22 of Off the Ice

Later that evening, I pulled into the players’ lot at the arena, feeling out of place even though Logan had texted me the gate code. The rows of sleek SUVs and luxury sedans screamed wealth, and my compact car stuck out like a sore thumb. Logan was waiting near the entrance, leaning against the wall in a black Hellblades hoodie and matching joggers. His arms were crossed, and he straightened as soon as he saw me, that trademark grin already in place.

“Nice ride,” he teased as I climbed out.

“Not all of us are NHL stars with sponsorship deals,” I shot back, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

He laughed, falling into step beside me. “Fair. But hey, you made it. Ready for your behind-the-scenes exclusive?”

"I cant wait," and I meant it.

Instead the arena, the energy of the arena felt different when it was empty. The quiet hum of activity in the background was a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd on game night. Logan led me through a series of hallways, pausing occasionally to nod at passing staff or players. When we reached the locker room, the smell of sweat and tape hit me immediately. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was distinct—sharp and alive, like the space carried the tension and adrenaline of every game played here.

“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” Logan said, pushing the door open with a dramatic flair.

Inside, players milled around, some still in their warm-up gear, others lounging in chairs or scrolling through their phones. The walls were lined with jerseys and motivational quotes, and the centerpiece was a large Hellblades logo painted on the floor.

“Don’t step on the logo,” Logan warned, his tone half-joking but serious enough to make me stop mid-step.

“Noted,” I said, glancing around.

“Guys, Guys,” Logan called out, clapping his hands. “This is Ava Carlisle. She’s writing a piece about the team, so try to act like you’re not complete degenerates for five minutes.”

A chorus of sarcastic replies and laughter followed, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Jaymie said, stepping forward with a grin. “Logan’s the biggest degenerate here.”

“Keep talking, Prescott,” Logan shot back. “See who gets the puck tonight.”

The banter was effortless, and as I moved through the room, jotting down notes and chatting with a few of the players, I started to understand why Logan loved this world so much. It wasn’t just the game, it was the camaraderie, the sense of belonging. The locker room wasn’t just a space; it was a second home, alive with energy and history.

When I’d gathered enough material to satisfy my article, Logan appeared by my side, a towel slung over his shoulder and his hoodie stretching across broad shoulders that seemed designed to ruin my focus.

“Ready to head back out?” he asked, his warm brown eyes locking onto mine.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to look at anything but the way the fabric clung to his biceps. “Thanks for letting me do this. It’s not something most people get to see.”

“Most people aren’t you,” he replied, his voice lower, quieter.

I swallowed hard, the easy rhythm of our banter suddenly shifting into something heavier, something unspoken.

Logan gestured toward the door, and I followed him out of the locker room, the hum of the arena growing louder as we moved closer to the concourse. The hallway felt impossibly long, the air thick with the unspoken tension building between us.

When we reached the entrance to the glass-side seating, Logan stopped, turning to face me. “So,” he said, his usual smirk softening into something closer to genuine. “You ready to watch me make this team look good?”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth tugged upward. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Always,” he said, his grin widening.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The sounds of the arena faded into the background, leaving just the two of us in the bubble of the moment.

“Seriously,” I said, my voice quieter now. “Thanks for tonight. It’s... more than I expected.”

Logan tilted his head, studying me with a look that felt too knowing, too personal. “You’re welcome. But don’t think for a second this is all for you. I like having you here.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, Logan stepped closer, his hand brushing against mine. The move was subtle, almost hesitant, as if he was giving me the chance to pull away.

I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself get caught in the pull of him—the warmth of his proximity, the way his honey-colored eyes seemed to search for something in mine.

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