Page 3 of Off the Ice

Andrew had been my agent since I was drafted at 18. Back then, he’d been more mentor than businessman, teaching me how to navigate endorsement deals and media interviews. But somewhere along the way, he’d traded his fatherly advice for a calculator, always crunching numbers to keep my name, and his cut, relevant.

"And what does that mean."

“It means you’re no longer just the Hellblades’ golden boy. You’re a brand. And right now, that brand looks like a guy who spends his off-hours fucking women, betting on sports games and schmoozing with the wrong crowd. We need to fix that. ASAP.”

“I wasn’t betting on games.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “You know that.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, shrugging like my entire reputation wasn’t hanging in the balance.

“What matters is perception. So we’re going to change it. Less swagger, more sincerity. Public charity events. Interviews that show your softer side. Maybe even, his lips curled into a smirk, a girlfriend.”

I laughed, a bitter sound. “I’m not staging some PR romance.”

“Not yet,” Andrew said, the smirk never faltering. “But we’ll keep it in the back pocket.”

I leaned back in my chair, the tension coiling in my chest. This was my life now, walking a tightrope between the truth and whatever the media decided to sell. He had a point, though I hated admitting it. If I didn’t clean up my image, this scandal could stick, even if I hadn’t done a damn thing wrong.

Andrew checked his watch. “Think about it, Logan. In the meantime, stay out of trouble. No more casino photos, no more bar fights.”

I snorted. “The casino wasn’t my idea. And the fight—”

“—was another perception problem.” He stood, adjusting his tie.

“Keep it clean, Logan. You’re too talented to blow this.”

I didn’t bother responding. As soon as he left, I grabbed my bag and headed out.

Clean or not, I needed to blow off some steam.

Three

Logan

Thebarwaspackedwhen I arrived, the bass-heavy music pulsing through the room like a heartbeat. Colored lights flashed overhead, cutting through the dim haze and reflecting off the glossy surfaces of tables and glasses. The dance floor was a writhing mass of bodies, moving in sync with the beat, laughter and voices blending into the thrum of the music.

The air smelled faintly of spilled beer and citrusy cocktails, a heady mix that clung to the warmth of the crowded space. Servers weaved through the press of people with trays held high, dodging swaying dancers and tipsy patrons.

Jaymie waved me over from a booth near the back, already surrounded by a few teammates and their puck bunnies for the night. The women leaned in close, their laughter too bright, their smiles too practiced, while the guys soaked up the attention like it was part of the job.

I slid past a group clustered near the bar, brushing off an accidental elbow as I made my way to the table. By the time I got there, I’d already decided I wouldn’t be staying long. I plastered on a smile, but my attention wandered almost immediately. That’s when I saw her.

She was leaning against the bar, her white-blonde bob catching the strobe lights with every slight turn of her head. She wasn’t trying to stand out, but she didn’t have to. There was something about her, an effortless kind of magnetism that made it impossible to look away.

The black dress she wore hugged every curve, the silky material clinging to her in a way that had my throat going dry. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t screaming for attention, but on her, it was lethal. The hem skimmed the tops of her thighs, revealing toned legs. The neckline dipped low enough to hint at the swell of her chest, her collarbones catching the light as she shifted. Under the glow of the neon, her skin had a golden warmth to it, like she’d been kissed by the sun despite the fact that it was the dead of winter.

She laughed at something the bartender said, the sound low and effortless, carrying over the hum of conversation. That laugh had a way of settling under my skin, curling in my chest like smoke, slow and consuming. She tilted her head just slightly, giving the bartender a knowing smile, and something in my stomach twisted. It was the kind of smile that pulled you in without trying. Sharp, confident, like she already had the upper hand. And damn if it didn’t make me want to close the space between us.

She tilted her head back slightly, her posture relaxed but deliberate, like she owned the space around her. It wasn’t just her looks, though those were hard to ignore. It was the confidence in how she moved, how she stood. She wasn’t waiting for anyone; she was content exactly where she was. I couldn’t help it, I was curious. About her. About the spark in her eyes. And about whether she was as interesting as she seemed from across the room. I didn’t realize I was staring until Jaymie nudged me.

“See something you like?”

“Maybe.” I downed the rest of my drink, then stood. “Back in a minute.”

She noticed me before I even said a word. Her hazel eyes flicked to mine, sharp and assessing, and the corner of her mouth curled into a smirk.

“Let me guess,” she said, her voice smooth and dripping with sarcasm. “Another player who thinks he’s God’s gift to women?”

I raised a brow, leaning casually against the bar. “That depends. Are you one of those women who assumes we’re all puck-chasing cavemen?”

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