Page 47 of Off the Ice

Jake hesitated. “Deep. If they’re targeting players like Darren, you can bet this isn’t isolated to one team. But Riker and McKay? They’re the key. They’re not just enabling this—they’re the masterminds of it.”

I gripped the edge of my desk, my knuckles white. “Jake, this... this could destroy the team.”

“It could destroy a hell of a lot more than that,” he said. “Be careful, Ava. You’re walking a tightrope here. One wrong move, and you’re going to piss off some very powerful people.”

“I know,” I said, my throat dry. “Thanks, Jake. I owe you.”

“You owe me more than coffee for this one,” he said, his tone softening just enough to remind me that he was still Jake, the guy who always had my back. “Stay safe.”

I hung up and stared at my phone for a moment, the weight of the conversation crashing down on me. This wasn’t just a story anymore. It wasn’t just a career-making exposé. This was Logan’s world, his team, his life. And it was being torn apart from the inside.

My thumb hovered over Logan’s name in my call log. I hesitated, knowing that what I was about to tell him would change everything. But there was no choice. He had to know.

I hit call.

The line rang twice before he answered. “Ava?” His voice was rough, distracted, like he was already in the middle of something.

“I need to see you,” I said, standing and grabbing my bag. My pulse thundered in my ears. “It’s important.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’m at the rink. Practice is just about to start. Can it wait?”

“No,” I said, already heading for the elevator. “I’ll explain when I get there.

***

The Hellblades’ practice facility buzzed with energy as I walked in. The sharp scrape of skates cutting into ice echoed through the air, blending with the rhythmic thud of pucks against the boards and the clipped shouts of coaches barking orders. The atmosphere was alive with focus and intensity, a well-oiled machine of athletes in their element.

I spotted Logan immediately, standing near center ice. He moved with effortless precision, his focus so sharp it was almost intimidating. Watching him like this—completely immersed in his world—sent a pang through me. This wasn’t just his career or his passion. It was his identity. And everything he knew was at risk.

I hesitated, my breath fogging up the glass as I debated how to approach him. He skated toward the bench, water bottle in hand, and I waved to catch his attention. His eyes locked onto mine, concern flickering across his face as his expression shifted. He said something to one of his teammates, then skated off the ice and made his way over to me.

“What’s going on?” Logan asked as he approached, tugging off his gloves and tucking them under his arm. His cheeks were flushed from exertion, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Even in the middle of practice, he exuded a calm, commanding presence that somehow made my nerves worse.

“Not here,” I said, lowering my voice and glancing around. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

His frown deepened, but he nodded, leading me down a hallway and into a small conference room just off the locker room. The door shut with a quiet click, muffling the sounds of the rink behind us. In the sudden stillness, the weight of what I had to say felt almost unbearable.

“Ava,” Logan said, his voice soft but edged with worry. “What’s going on?”

I gripped the strap of my bag like it might steady me, drawing in a slow breath. “It’s about the betting scandal,” I began, my heart pounding. “I’ve been digging deeper, and Jake found something. Something big.” Logan’s jaw tightened, his shoulders squaring as if he were bracing for impact.

“What did he find? Wait who the hell is Jake?”

"Ugh," I groaned barely keeping the eyeroll aside, "We've gone over this, he is a fact checker," I hesitated, the words sticking in my throat. Once I said it, there was no going back.

“It’s Glen Riker,” I said finally, forcing the words out. “Your assistant coach. He’s tied to the gambling and Darren. Jake found records—financial transactions, offshore accounts. Riker’s been taking money for years, likely skimming from the bets and intimidating rookies like Darren to increase his odds of winning.”

Logan stared at me, his expression unreadable at first. Then, slowly, his brows knit together, and his jaw clenched.

“Riker?” he repeated, his voice low and simmering with disbelief. “Are you sure?”

“I wish I wasn’t,” I said, my throat tight. “But it’s all there. And there’s more.”

“More?” His tone sharpened, and his eyes locked onto mine.

I swallowed hard, knowing the next revelation would cut even deeper. “It’s Andrew Mckay as well, your agent. He’s involved too. He’s been acting as a middleman, connecting the bets to players, finding easy targets. Logan, they’ve been working together.”

Logan froze, his entire body going rigid. Then, with a sharp exhale, he turned away, bracing his hands on the edge of the table. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the surface, the tension radiating off him in waves. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the overhead lights.

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