Page 46 of Off the Ice

I leaned toward Logan, my voice low. “Maybe we should—”

He shook his head subtly, his jaw tight as he stayed focused on Kessler, silently daring him to push further. When it became clear Kessler wouldn’t, Logan turned his attention to Darren.

“You good, Rivers?” Logan asked, his tone softer but no less commanding.

Darren looked up finally, his eyes flickering with a mix of shame and gratitude. “Yeah,” he muttered, though his voice was shaky.

Logan nodded, giving him a brief but firm pat on the shoulder before shifting back to his plate. The tension eased gradually as conversations resumed, but the air between Logan and Darren felt heavy, charged with unspoken understanding.

By the time dessert came—lavish chocolate lava cakes and crème brûlée—the room had lightened again, but I couldn’t shake the weight of what had happened. Darren’s reaction to Kessler’s jab wasn’t just a rookie bristling at criticism; it was deeper, sharper, like a wound that had been poked too many times.

As we left the restaurant later, Logan stayed behind to exchange words with Darren near the entrance. I lingered a few steps away, giving them space but catching snippets of their conversation.

“You don’t let guys like Kessler get in your head,” Logan said, his voice low but firm. “He’s a jackass. What matters is how you show up next time. You hear me?”

Darren nodded, his shoulders still hunched. “Yeah. Thanks, Bennett.”

Logan clapped him on the back before Darren walked off, his pace hurried like he couldn’t leave fast enough. When Logan joined me outside, his expression was unreadable.

“You okay?” I asked, studying him.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Kessler’s a pain in the ass, but Darren’s the one I’m worried about. He’s unraveling, and I don’t know how much longer he can keep it together.”

“Then we don’t let him unravel,” I said, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. “We find a way to help him before it’s too late.”

Logan’s gaze softened, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re something else, Ava.”

“So are you,” I replied, falling into step beside him as we walked toward his car. The city buzzed around us, but for the first time that night, I felt a strange calm. Whatever storm was coming, we were in it together. And that, at least, was enough to keep moving forward.

Twenty Five

Ava

Themorninglightstreamingthrough the newsroom windows only deepened the gnawing tension in my chest. My coffee sat untouched beside me, a lukewarm prop in a scene of unraveling chaos. The email thread with Jake blinked on my laptop screen, an unrelenting reminder of the bombshell that was just out of reach. He was untangling the labyrinth of files from the anonymous email, digging deeper into the hidden web of financial records. The air around me felt taut, electrified, as if the newsroom itself could sense the storm brewing.

I refreshed my inbox again, my pulse hammering as I willed the update to appear. When my phone buzzed, the sound shattered the fragile silence in my head. I grabbed it, nearly fumbling in my haste.

“Jake,” I said, my voice tight with anticipation. “What did you find?”

There was a pause on the other end, long enough to set my nerves on edge. “You’re going to want to sit down for this,” he said finally, his tone grim.

“Just tell me,” I pressed, leaning forward in my chair. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.

“One of the accounts tied to the betting activity has regular deposits from Glen Riker,” he said, his words cutting like a knife. “The assistant coach. He’s been on the payroll for years, funneling money through offshore accounts. But that’s not the worst of it.”

“What could possibly be worse than that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jake exhaled sharply, like he was bracing himself for the blow he was about to deliver. “Andrew McKay. Logan’s agent. His name shows up in the same transaction logs. He’s the middleman, Ava. He’s been brokering deals between the syndicate and players. Riker and McKay—they’re running this thing from the inside. McKay is most likely Darren's contact.”

The room tilted, and for a moment, I thought I might lose my grip entirely. Glen Riker, the assistant coach who was supposed to guide and support the team. Andrew McKay, the agent Logan trusted to look out for his best interests. Two men who had direct access to the Hellblades, two men who had sold them out.

“Are you absolutely sure?” I asked, my voice shaking with the effort to keep it steady.

“As sure as I can be without dragging them into court,” Jake said. “The records are airtight. Deposits, withdrawals, even communications linking them to known mobsters. This isn’t just a scandal. It’s treachery.”

The word hit me like a slap. Treachery. It was the only word that fit. My mind raced, trying to make sense of it all, but the betrayal felt too enormous to grasp.

“And the managament with the Hellblades? Is it only Glen?” I asked, forcing myself to focus. “How deep does this go?”

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