Page 37 of Off the Ice

I’d been staring at it for hours, trying to will the pieces to make sense, but the numbers blurred together, each line taunting me with its ambiguity. My coffee sat untouched and cold beside me, the bitter scent mingling with the faint tang of printer ink and stale newsroom air. The only clear thought I had was that this story was slipping into dangerous territory.

Player 88. Suspicious losses. Hidden bets. Questionable large payments. The implications were staggering.

When I felt a presence beside me, I glanced up to find Jake standing there, holding a manila folder like it contained the secrets of the universe. His expression, a mix of excitement and apprehension, immediately put me on edge.

“You’ve got something,” I said, swiveling my chair to face him fully.

“Not just something.” He dropped the folder onto my desk with a deliberate thud. “This might be your smoking gun.”

My stomach twisted as I reached for it. The contents could make or break everything, my story, Logan’s trust, and the precarious connection we were building. Slowly, I opened the folder. Inside were printouts of bank statements, betting receipts, and digital transaction logs. The evidence was meticulous, damning.

“This is from the file you forwarded,” Jake explained, leaning over my desk as I sifted through the documents. “It took some work to untangle, but I found a name buried in the offshore accounts: Darren Rivers.”

I froze. Darren Rivers. Rookie. Number 88.

Jake continued, oblivious to my reaction. “The kid’s been placing bets on Hellblades games, but here’s the kicker, the betting activity spikes on games the team loses. Specifically, games he played in.”

His words hit like a gut punch. Darren wasn’t just a rookie; he was barely twenty, fresh out of juniors and still learning the ropes. But this wasn’t a rookie mistake. This was deliberate. Calculated.

“Are you sure?” My voice came out quieter than I intended.

Jake frowned, tapping the folder. “As sure as I can be without a subpoena. The accounts are tied to his name and social security number, and the transactions match up with flagged games. If this pans out, Ava, it’s big. Career-making exposé big.” and it just landed in my lap.

I nodded, my mind racing. Jake hesitated, watching me carefully. “Look, I kept this as discreet as you asked. But whatever you do next, it’s on you.”

“Thanks, Jake,” I said, forcing steadiness into my voice despite the storm inside me.

Once he walked away, I shut the folder and leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling like it might hold the answers I couldn’t find. Darren Rivers. A kid with everything to lose and, apparently, everything to gain by betting against his own team. The question wasn’t just why he’d do it, it was how far he was willing to go.

I drummed my fingers on the desk, my thoughts oscillating between my obligation as a journalist and the potential fallout this revelation would unleash. Logan’s trust in his team was unshakable. What would it do to him to find out one of his own was sabotaging everything they’d built?

The folder felt heavier than it should have as I opened it again. The evidence was compelling, but it wasn’t complete. There were gaps—transactions that needed context, patterns that needed more scrutiny. And the thought of confronting Logan with this, of seeing his face when I told him, made my chest ache in ways I didn’t want to analyze.

I leaned forward, pressing my hands to my temples. My hair slipped from its loose bun, falling into my face, but I didn’t bother fixing it. Instead, I turned back to my laptop, typing Darren’s name into the search bar. His rookie stats and interviews filled the screen. Every image showed the same wide-eyed kid, all smiles and youthful enthusiasm.

But as I scrolled, something shifted. A post-game photo caught my attention, Darren standing behind Logan at a press conference. His posture was stiff, his expression guarded, like he was carrying something far heavier than the weight of a loss. I clicked on it, scrutinizing every detail. His clenched fists. The shadowed circles under his eyes.

I made a note to revisit his recent performances, cross-referencing them with the flagged losses in the spreadsheet. Were there subtle mistakes? Missed passes? Errors that could tilt a game’s outcome without drawing attention? It was a long shot, but I couldn’t ignore the possibility.

The deeper I dug, the more tangled the web became. Darren’s connection to the betting activity wasn’t just circumstantial, it was deliberate. The stakes couldn’t have been higher for him, a kid barely a year into his NHL career. What could drive someone to risk it all?

The weight of it pressed on me until I had to move. I shoved my chair back and began pacing the small space around my desk. The timeline didn’t add up—or maybe it did, and I was too exhausted to see it clearly. Either way, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just about Darren.

There was more to this, other players involved.

This wasn't just about framing Logan.

There had to be.

By the time the afternoon sun slanted through the newsroom windows, I’d gathered enough evidence to make a case. But a case wasn’t enough. I needed answers.

And I knew exactly who might have them.

I stared at my phone, Logan’s name glowing on the screen like a challenge. My thumb hovered over the call button, hesitation knotting my stomach. This wasn’t just about a story anymore. It wasn’t just about exposing the truth. It was about Logan, what he meant to me, what I meant to him, and whether either of us was ready to face the fallout of what I’d found.

The newsroom around me blurred into the background as I sat there, caught in the limbo between action and inaction. This was my job, my duty as a reporter. But for the first time in my career, I didn’t feel like a journalist. I felt like a person standing at the edge of a cliff, wondering if the leap was worth the fall.

I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. The line between personal and professional had never felt thinner.

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