Page 70 of Off the Ice

She turned and walked toward the house, her boots crunching against the frozen ground.

I watched her leave, something hollow and aching settling in my chest.

Was this it?

Was this where we broke?

I squeezed my eyes shut, my grip tightening around my stick.

I had already lost my career. I had already lost everything I had spent my entire life building.

I couldn’t lose her too. I had to fix myself, and I had to fix this shit situatoin.

***

I was still on the ice when my phone rang.

I pulled it from my pocket, glancing at the screen.

A number I didn’t recognize.

I hesitated, then answered. “Yeah?”

A deep voice came through the line. “Logan Bennett?”

I frowned. “Who’s asking?”

There was a pause. Then: “My name is Patrick Thomas, I’m calling from the NHL executive office. We need to talk. There’s something we have to offer you.”

A chill ran down my spine.

I straightened, my grip tightening on the phone. “I’m listening.”

Thirty Six

Logan

TheredeyetoNewYork was miserable.

I barely slept, my mind running in endless circles, replaying everything that had happened over the last few days. The broadcast. The suspension. The fallout. Ava walking away from me.

And now, this.

An unexpected meeting with the NHL front office.

I didn’t know what to expect. The league had spent the last forty-eight hours scrambling to cover their own ass, pushing PR statements about thorough internal investigations and commitment to the integrity of the game. All of it was bullshit.

They didn’t care about the truth. They cared about control.

I landed at JFK just after six in the morning, caught a cab to the NHL’s headquarters in Midtown, and walked into the massive glass building with my shoulders squared. No agent. No lawyer. Just me.

It felt like walking into enemy territory.

A receptionist with perfectly curled hair and an artificial smile directed me to the top floor. The ride up in the elevator was silent, just the faint hum of machinery and the distant pounding of my pulse in my ears.

The doors opened with a quiet chime, and Patrick Thomas—the Chief Operating Officer of the NHL—was already waiting for me.

“Bennett,” he greeted, extending a hand. His grip was firm, practiced. The kind of handshake that made it clear he was used to getting his way. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

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