Page 52 of Off the Ice

Twenty Eight

Logan

Iwokeuptothe sound of my phone vibrating against the nightstand, the insistent buzz cutting through the haze of restless sleep. For a second, I thought maybe it was Ava—some part of me still half-expecting her to fix this, or even acknowledge my existence, or to tell me she’d found a way to undo the damage. But when I reached for my phone, blinking against the too-bright screen, her name wasn’t there.

It was worse.

2 days had gone by, the team had cancelled practice and laid low.

There had been zero word from Ava.

Now headlines covered the media pages, pictures of raunchy nights out, gala events. It was on every station and every surface. The aliens could see the nation wide fucking coverage.

ESPN: HELLBLADES AT THE CENTER OF NHL GAMBLING INVESTIGATION

The Athletic: ANONYMOUS SOURCES POINT TO MASSIVE BETTING RING

Chicago Daily Times: HOW DEEP DOES THE CORRUPTION GO?

I scrolled through article after article, my stomach knotting tighter with every headline. Every sports site, every insider account, every goddamn talking head on social media was ripping the team apart like vultures on a fresh carcass. And right there, bold as day, was Ava’s name in the byline of theChicago Daily Times—front and center, exposing just enough to blow everything wide open.

She hadn’t named Darren. She hadn’t named me. But that didn’t mean shit.

The Hellblades were officially the league’s latest scandal, and she’d gone behind my fucking back to make it happen.

I ripped the blankets off and launched myself out of bed, fists clenched, chest burning with heat I didn’t know what to do with. Anger pulsed beneath my skin like a live wire. The walls of my apartment felt too tight, too close, like I was being smothered in my own damn space. I paced, fast and aimless, blood roaring in my ears. The fallout was already playing in my head on loop—reporters swarming the locker room, teammates looking at me like I’d let this happen, coaches scrambling to spin it before it sunk the whole damn season.

And Darren.

Fuck.

He was barely keeping it together as it was. And now this?

She said she cared. I fuckingtrustedher.

And she burned it.

I grabbed my phone again, dialing his number. Straight to voicemail. I tried again. Same thing. My gut twisted. The kid had been unraveling for weeks, and now? Now he was at the center of a scandal that would follow him for the rest of his career—if he even had one after this. I forced down the rising panic and grabbed my keys. There was nothing I could do from here. But at the rink? I could at least try to contain the damage.

***

By the time I got to the Hellblades' practice facility, the tension was suffocating.

Connor was standing outside the locker room, arms crossed, his expression grim as I approached. “Tell me you’ve seen it.”

I let out a sharp breath. “Yeah.”

“It’s a fucking circus in there,” he muttered, jerking his head toward the double doors. “Half the guys don’t know what to believe, and the other half are looking at each other like someone’s about to sell them out next.”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to steady the frustration boiling just under the surface. “Where’s Darren?”

Connor’s jaw clenched. “Didn’t show.”

I cursed under my breath. “Anyone talk to him?”

“I tried. He’s not answering.”

That wasn’t good. That was the kind of not good that had my pulse spiking in a way I didn’t like. Darren had barely been holding it together before all this. If he was ghosting the team now? He was either spiraling, or someone had gotten to him first.

---