Page 8 of Off the Ice

The phone buzzed on my desk, jolting me out of my focus. I frowned at the screen, an unknown number flashing across it. Great, probably another PR rep calling to tell me what I could and couldn’t write. Still, I couldn’t afford to ignore calls these days. Not when I needed every lead, every quote, every crumb of a story I could get my hands on. My finger hesitated over the answer button for half a second before I sighed and picked up.

“This is Ava Carlisle.”

“Carlisle, it’s Logan Bennett.”

His voice was unmistakable, low, smooth, and laced with just enough smugness to make my teeth clench. I straightened in my chair, my pulse ticking up a notch. Why does every male on the planet believe in calling someone by their last name? As if first names never existed.

“Bennett. To what do I owe the honor?”

He chuckled softly, and I hated that it sounded... nice. “Look, I’ve been thinking about our interview.”

“Oh? Decided to give me real answers this time, instead of your garbled nonsense of drunk and disorderly?”

There was a beat of silence before he replied, “Maybe. I wasn’t exactly... at my best. Bristly, I guess you’d call it. I’d like to make it up to you.”

I leaned back, my pen tapping lightly against the edge of my notebook.

“Make it up to me? I didn’t realize hockey players were in the habit of second chances.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he said, his tone carrying a thread of humor. “What do you say? One more interview. Just you and me, no PR handlers breathing down our necks.”

I should have said no. I should have told him I already had what I needed. But the truth was, I didn’t. Not really. The story I had so far wasn’t enough, not enough to land me the byline I needed, the one that could finally get my career out of neutral. And now Logan Bennett was practically handing me a lifeline. Exclusive access to the Hellblades’ golden boy? If I played this right, it could be my big break. The kind that didn’t just get you a story but a reputation.

“What’s the catch?” I asked finally.

“No catch,” he said, though the way he said it made me think there probably was one. “Just think of it as a chance to hear and see my side without the noise.”

“Okay,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “But I have conditions. I want the truth, Bennett. No dodging, no deflecting. If I’m giving you another chance, I expect answers.”

“You’ll get answers,” he said, his voice carrying that same smooth confidence that had probably charmed a thousand reporters before me.

“When are you free?”

I glanced around the bullpen, the hum of my coworkers typing and talking blending into the usual chaos of the newsroom. My office wasn’t an option—I didn’t even have one. But the coffee shop downstairs was quiet enough, and it wouldn’t look suspicious if anyone saw us.

“Tomorrow morning. Ten a.m. The coffee shop downstairs from the Chicago Daily Times.”

“Coffee, huh? Thought you’d go for something stronger,” he said, amusement lacing his tone.

“Trust me, Bennett, you’re not worth a drink at ten in the morning.”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound that made my stomach twist for reasons I didn’t like. “Fair enough. I’ll be there.”

The call ended, and I stared at my phone for a long moment, the screen now dark and quiet. My mind buzzed with possibilities, weighing the risk against the potential reward. Logan Bennett wasn’t someone you trusted easily, but he was someone who could change everything if I played this right.

For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could pull this off.

Six

Logan

Ispottedherthesecond I walked in, just like the bar. Ava Carlisle didn’t blend in anywhere—not in a newsroom, not in a bar, and definitely not in a coffee shop. She was sitting at a small table by the window, her platinum blonde bob catching the sunlight streaming through the glass. A notebook lay open in front of her, her pen tapping against the edge as she stared at something on her phone. She looked focused, impatient, and completely in her element.

My stomach twisted—a mix of nerves and determination I wasn’t used to feeling. I’d faced breakaway plays in overtime, stared down rival defensemen built like freight trains, and dealt with more media scrutiny than most people could stomach. But this? This was different. This wasn’t about winning a game or managing my image with a smile and a soundbite.

This was about turning my entire shitstorm of a life around before it swallowed me whole.

And for that, I needed her.

---