Page 45 of Off the Ice

“Never claimed to have great timing,” he said, shrugging. “But I’m not sorry.”

I shook my head, the weight of his confession and everything else pressing back down on me. “Logan, this thing with Darren… it’s bigger than we thought. And if we’re not careful, it’s going to blow up in ways we can’t control.”

His expression sobered, and he nodded. “I know. That’s why we’ve got to keep this tight—for now, it’s just you, me, and Darren. No one else.”

I nodded, but unease still gnawed at me. “What about tomorrow? The team dinner?”

Logan’s jaw clenched, and I could see the wheels turning in his head. “We show up, smile for the cameras, and keep our heads down. The last thing we need is more attention.”

“Easier said than done,” I muttered.

He crossed the room, resting his hands on my shoulders. “I mean it, Ava. Whatever happens, we’ll handle it. Together.”

The weight of his words settled over me, grounding me in a way I hadn’t expected. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I wasn’t carrying the burden alone.

***

The team dinner was held in one of Chicago’s trendier steakhouses, a private dining room reserved just for the Hellblades and their guests. Logan had texted me the location earlier that afternoon, and I was already regretting saying yes. These kinds of events felt like walking into a lion’s den, especially now with Darren’s situation hanging heavy over both of us.

When I arrived, the room was buzzing with energy. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a glittering view of the city skyline, while dimly lit chandeliers cast a warm glow over the long, elegantly set table. Plates of appetizers—perfectly seared scallops, truffle fries, and charcuterie boards piled high—lined the center, and glasses of wine and whiskey clinked as players mingled and laughed.

Logan was already there, looking unfairly good in a dark button-down shirt and blazer, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms. He caught my eye the moment I walked in, his lips quirking into a small, knowing smile.

“Glad you made it,” he said, stepping forward to greet me. His hand found the small of my back as he leaned in closer. “Thought you might bail.”

“I considered it,” I admitted, glancing around at the sea of familiar faces. “But someone once told me I should fake it till I make it.”

Logan chuckled, his hand lingering on my back before he pulled away to grab us drinks. “Smart advice. Whoever said that must be brilliant.”

As we sat down, the players slowly began to fill the long table. Jaymie Prescott was already cracking jokes from one end, drawing a wave of laughter, while Connor Maddox, the captain, was deep in conversation with one of the assistant coaches. Darren slid into a seat near the far corner, quieter than usual, his eyes darting to Logan every so often like he was looking for reassurance.

Dinner began with salads and endless banter, the team’s easy camaraderie on full display. Jaymie spent half the time roasting Logan for his “media darling” reputation, which Logan took in stride with a few sharp retorts of his own.

“Bet you’ve got a press release ready every time Logan breathes,” Jaymie teased, raising his glass.

“No press release,” Logan shot back with a smirk. “Just happens naturally when you’re this good.”

“Please, your ego is suffocating us,” Connor added dryly, shaking his head as the table erupted into laughter.

The light mood shifted halfway through the main course—a perfectly cooked filet mignon with sides of creamy mashed potatoes and roasted asparagus. The conversation had turned to the recent string of games, with one of the older players, Nathan Kessler, starting to critique the team’s struggles.

“Let’s be honest,” Kessler said, cutting into his steak. “We’ve had some sloppy losses. And not to be that guy, but some of us need to step it up.”

The table went quiet, tension creeping in like a storm cloud. Darren, seated a few spots down, froze, his fork hovering in midair.

“You talking about anyone specific?” Logan’s voice cut through the silence, calm but pointed.

Kessler shrugged, clearly unbothered by the shift in tone. “I’m just saying, some people play like they’re scared to make mistakes. Rookie nerves, maybe.”

Darren’s face flushed a deep red, his jaw tightening as he stared down at his plate.

“That’s enough,” Logan said, his voice sharp now, silencing the murmurs that had started to ripple through the group. “We all know hockey’s a team sport. Losses aren’t on one guy, rookie or not.”

Kessler leaned back in his chair, raising his hands defensively. “Relax, Bennett. Just pointing out the obvious.”

“No, you’re singling someone out, and it’s bullshit,” Logan snapped, his voice steady but loaded with authority. “If you’ve got something to say, say it to the whole room. Otherwise, shut up and eat your steak.”

The table fell into an uncomfortable silence, save for the faint clink of silverware. Darren still hadn’t lifted his gaze, his hands clenched into fists on the table.

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