Page 49 of Off the Ice

His hand brushed mine briefly, a silent reassurance. “Good. Because neither am I.”

We stood there for a moment, the cold air swirling around us, before Logan finally nodded toward the parking lot. “Go. I’ll handle things here.”

I hesitated, then gave him a small smile. “See you soon, Bennett.”

As I walked to my car, I could feel Glen’s lingering presence in the back of my mind like a shadow I couldn’t shake. The battle was just beginning, and if Glen Riker thought he could intimidate me, he was in for a rude awakening.

Twenty Six

Ava

Thearenawasbuzzingwith excitement, the stands packed with fans who’d turned out for the Hellblades’ annual charity game. The event had all the makings of a lighthearted evening, players switching positions, ridiculous plays that made the crowd roar with laughter, and, of course, Logan looking effortlessly good at everything he did.

I stood just inside the press box, sipping from a paper cup of lukewarm coffee while Andrew McKay, Logan’s agent, lounged casually in a nearby seat. Despite his tailored suit and polished demeanor, Andrew didn’t look particularly invested in the game unfolding below us. He was scrolling through his phone, only glancing up every so often when the crowd erupted in cheers.

“Hockey’s a funny sport,” Andrew said, his tone light but edged with sarcasm. “It’s like a dance, but with more broken teeth.”

I smirked, setting my coffee down on the counter. “Is that supposed to be insightful?”

“Just an observation,” he said, shrugging as his eyes flicked to mine. “I’m more of a numbers guy. Goals, assists, contracts, that’s my arena. The actual game? It’s... fine.”

“Fine?” I echoed, arching a brow. “You’re representing one of the league’s top players, and you think hockey is just fine?”

Andrew grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, Carlisle. I’m not saying it’s boring. I’m saying it’s predictable. Puck goes in net. Crowd cheers. Repeat.”

I rolled my eyes, but the banter was surprisingly easy. For someone who was supposedly neck-deep in shady dealings, Andrew had a way of disarming people with his charm. Still, every word he said felt calculated, like he was testing me.

“You don’t have to stay up here, you know,” he added, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure Logan would love to have you rinkside, fawning over him like the rest of the girlfriends.”

The comment stung more than it should have, but I kept my expression neutral. “I’m here for the story, not the romance.”

“Of course you are,” Andrew said, his smirk widening. “But if you change your mind, I’m sure Logan won’t mind the extra distraction.”

Before I could respond, a loud cheer erupted from the crowd. I turned just in time to see Logan score an impressive goal from the far blue line, his grin visible even from where I stood. He raised his stick in a mock celebration, drawing laughter from the players and fans alike.

Andrew chuckled, shaking his head. “Show-off.”

I didn’t reply, my attention fixed on Logan as he skated back to the bench, his eyes scanning the stands. When he spotted me in the press box, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Despite the distance, it felt like a private moment, a reminder that he saw me even in the chaos.

The game ended in a flurry of cheers and autographs, the Hellblades raising over $600,000 for local youth programs. Logan, still glowing from the exhibition victory, still a W in his mind, found me near the locker room as the crowd began to disperse.

“Enjoy the game?” he asked, a lopsided grin on his face.

“It was entertaining,” I said, matching his smile. “But I think Andrew prefers spreadsheets to slap shots.”

Logan laughed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah, he’s not exactly Mr. Team Spirit. Come on, we’re heading back to my place. Team tradition.”

“Your place?” I asked, arching a brow. “What happened to the standard bar crawl?”

“We mix it up for charity night,” Logan said, his grin widening. “Besides, my penthouse has better drinks and fewer paparazzi.”

By the time I arrived at Logan’s penthouse, the party was already in full swing. The team had traded their jerseys for casual clothes, but the energy in the room was the same—loud, boisterous, and unapologetically chaotic. Jaymie was holding court near the bar, regaling a small group with what sounded like an exaggerated version of tonight’s game, complete with wild hand gestures. Connor and Mallory were locked in a heated debate over the merits of nachos versus sliders, their laughter echoing over the music.

Logan appeared beside me, handing me a glass of wine. “You good?”

“Better now,” I said, taking a sip. The warmth of the drink spread through me, dulling some of the tension that had been knotted in my chest all day.

Logan leaned closer, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “Stay close. These guys are harmless, but they’ve had a long season. Things can get... rowdy.”

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