Page 5 of Off the Ice

“It’s not coming because Bennett’s not exactly handing out interviews,” I said flatly, refusing to rise to his bait. She had failed to make it past the receptionist of the Hellblades before being hungup on.

Frank leaned against the edge of my desk, crumbs falling onto my keyboard.

“He will if you push the right buttons. Go big, Carlisle. I don’t want another generic ‘athlete on the rocks’ story. I want fireworks.”

I forced a smile. “You want a headline. I’ll get the truth.”

“Great. Just make sure it's the real truth that sells.” He sauntered off, leaving the faint smell of onions in his wake.

I sighed and turned back to my screen, scrolling through yet another speculative piece about Logan’s lady habits. The deeper I dug, the murkier it got. Anonymous sources, vague accusations—it was all smoke, no fire. Which meant if I wanted answers, I’d have to get them straight from the source.

The call came that afternoon. The Hellblades’ PR team had finally caved, after many phone calls and emails to their office begging for a connection, offering a tightly controlled interview with Logan Bennett.

Twenty minutes.

Pre-approved questions.

Enough hoops to jump through to make a goodlen doodle dizzy.

I wasn’t about to pass it up.

***

The next day, I arrived at the Hellblades’ headquarters armed with my laptop, voice recorder, and a game face that could crack steel. The building was all glass and chrome, sleek and spotless. A receptionist led me to a conference room that felt just as cold—high ceilings, minimalist furniture, and a long table that made me feel like I was about to interrogate a mob boss instead of a hockey player.

I didn’t have to wait long. The door opened, and Logan strolled in like he owned the place. He was in casual clothes this time—jeans and a fitted black Henley that somehow made him look even more annoyingly confident. His honey-colored eyes landed on me, and his lips curled into that signature grin.

“Miss me already?” he drawled, sliding into the seat across from me.

Of course, he led with a line. His grin was the same as it had been at the bar, easy and confident, like the world existed purely to entertain him. It was irritatingly magnetic, which only made me want to shut it down faster.

I set my notebook on the table, keeping my expression neutral. “Not even a little. But thanks for making time between scandals.”

His grin faltered, just barely. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make me feel like I’d scored the first point. “Right to the point, huh? Guessing small talk isn’t your thing.”

“Not when there’s a story to tell.” I leaned forward slightly, mirroring his casual posture but injecting my own edge. “So, Bennett, what’s it like being the center of a media circus?”

His jaw tightened, though his smirk stayed in place. “It’s like being a human dartboard. Except the darts are rumors, and none of them bother to aim.”

I tilted my head, jotting down a note but keeping my focus on him. He was good at this, deflecting with just enough charm to disarm most people. But I wasn’t most people. “Interesting analogy,” I said, my pen poised over the page. “And yet, where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.”

His eyes darkened, a flicker of frustration breaking through his mask of calm. “You think I lit the match?”

“I think someone did. Maybe you. Maybe not. That’s what I’m here to find out.” And I was.

The rumors had been swirling for weeks, ever since that photo of Logan with a questionable woman on his arm, stubbling out of a Vegas casino had gone viral. It wasn’t just the image, it was the whispers of bets placed on games, including his own, on top of the strip club circus. Those whispers had turned into accusations: Logan Bennett, golden boy of the Hellblades, allegedly tied to illegal gambling operations. Some reports claimed he’d been betting on other leagues to avoid scrutiny, while others outright accused him of influencing games. No hard evidence, just enough smoke to make the league’s PR team sweat buckets.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. The movement stretched his black Henley over his broad shoulders, and I had to force myself not to notice. “You’re not like the other reporters, are you?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.” His grin widened, showing teeth this time—a little sharper, a little less friendly. “But I do like a challenge. Whats question number one?”

I almost rolled my eyes. Classic Bennett. Everything was a game to him, an opportunity to win. He probably thought he was still holding the upper hand, even with his reputation dangling by a thread. That arrogance should have made him easy to dismiss, but there was something underneath it. A flicker of… what? Annoyance? Vulnerability? Maybe both.

“Well,” I said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’re about to get one.”

Logan

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