Page 36 of Off the Ice

Nineteen

Ava

I’dbeengluedtomy work laptop for hours, my eyes dry and aching from staring at the screen. The deadline was too close, and Frank’s relentless demands echoed in my mind. I needed something—anything—that could connect the dots with the gambling email. I also needed to learn how to turn my email ping off after 8 pm.

The spreadsheet I’d been poring over was a mess of dates, player stats, and betting patterns. Nothing concrete had emerged yet, just a vague sense of unease. I’d tried sorting the data every which way, adding columns, flagging anomalies, and cross-referencing games. Still, I had nothing to show for it but a mounting frustration that knotted in my chest. The email arrived in the dead of night, just as the weight of exhaustion began to creep in.

The buzz of my phone cut through the silence, startling me. A new email notification popped up on the screen:

Subject: You’re Looking in the Wrong Place.

I froze, my pulse spiking as I stared at the subject line. It came from an anonymous address, the kind designed to evade scrutiny, the same as the last. The email could be spam or a trap—or it could be the breakthrough I desperately needed.

I clicked.

The message was short, almost clinical, but its implications hit me like a gut punch:

“The scandal isn’t just outside the league. One of the Hellblades is involved. Look closer.”

Attached was a spreadsheet. I opened it, and the data leapt off the screen: betting activity tied to several Hellblades games. Dates were highlighted, key matches the team had lost despite being heavy favorites. In the margins, scrawled in distorted font, were the words: Player 88.

My stomach twisted. That wasn’t just a number, it was a jersey, a person. A Hellblade.

The air in my apartment felt stifling as I stared at the spreadsheet, my mind racing. Logan had been so adamant that his team was clean, that his teammates were above suspicion. He’d defended them, even when the league had been rife with rumors. But this email suggested otherwise. It wasn’t just a league-wide problem—it was personal.

I shoved my chair back and began pacing the living room. The sender’s anonymity only made it worse. Why send this to me? Was it a warning? A setup?

The dates in the spreadsheet matched losses I’d already flagged in my earlier research, games that had felt suspicious but lacked concrete evidence. Now, those same games carried a chilling implication: deliberate sabotage. If this email was legitimate, someone within the Hellblades organization might be actively betting against their own team. Betraying them.

I couldn’t take this to Logan. Not yet. Not without proof. Not when the fallout could shatter his world.

Instead, I forwarded the email to myself, scrubbing any identifying details, and fired off a message to Jake, the only fact-checker I could trusted at the Chicago Daily Times.

Ava

Got another lead. Can you discreetly verify betting activity tied to Player 88 on the Hellblades?

The three dots of his reply appeared almost immediately.

Jake

You really know how to make things interesting, don’t you? I’ll dig into it. Give me a day or two.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. For now, all I could do was wait.

I returned to my desk, opening the spreadsheet again. The highlighted dates glared back at me, each one a thread in a web I was just beginning to unravel. If even one Hellblade was involved, it would upend everything Logan believed about his team. It would cut deeper than any headline or scandal.

By the time the first rays of sunlight seeped through my curtains, my exhaustion was a distant memory. My mind raced, replaying every conversation I’d had with Logan, every assurance he’d given me about his teammates’ integrity. The weight of the information bore down on me, heavier with each passing minute.

This wasn’t just a story anymore. It was the truth, and it could change everything, for Logan, for the Hellblades, and for me.

With a deep breath, I shut the laptop, the screen going dark with a finality that made my chest tighten. This was bigger than I’d imagined, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what came next.

Twenty

Ava

Themorningaftermysleepless night, the newsroom was abuzz with its usual chaotic energy, phones ringing, keyboards clattering, snippets of conversations weaving into a constant hum. Normally, the noise blended into the background as I focused on my work, but today it felt like a cacophony that I couldn’t tune out. My desk, tucked in the corner, felt more like a bunker as I hunched over my laptop, the spreadsheet from the anonymous email still glaring at me.

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