Page 38 of Off the Ice

But one way or another, I had to cross it.

Twenty One

Ava

Thenewsroomnoisefadedinto a low hum as I sat there, Logan’s name still glowing on my phone screen. My thumb hovered over the call button, and for a brief, maddening moment, I considered pressing it, blurting out everything I’d uncovered in a desperate rush for clarity.

But what would I even say?Hey, Logan, turns out your rookie teammate is tied to a betting scandal, and by the way, it might unravel everything you’ve worked for.

No. I couldn’t do that. Our whole friendship, dare I say fake relationship is based on protecting his image.

Instead, I tossed my phone onto the desk and focused on the folder in front of me. The weight of Darren Rivers’ name felt heavier with every passing second. I needed to act, not because of Frank’s looming deadlines, not because of the stakes this story held, but because the truth was burning a hole through me. And because every time I thought of Logan’s trust, his faith in his team, it made the folder in front of me feel like a betrayal waiting to happen.

I shook off the thought and grabbed my notebook, jotting down questions I couldn’t shake.

Why Darren?

How far does this go?

What’s his connection to Santoro?

The last name circled in bold on my notes sent a fresh wave of unease rolling through me. Richie Santoro wasn’t just a bookie—he was a ghost in the Chicago underground, his name whispered in court cases and rumored across crime reports but never tied to anything concrete. If Darren was working with someone like him, the stakes were even higher than I’d thought.

I shut the notebook and pushed back from my desk. The newsroom’s buzz seemed sharper now, the chaos pressing in on all sides. Jake’s words echoed in my head.

It’s on you now.

***

By mid-afternoon, I was parked in a coffee shop two blocks from the Hellblades’ practice facility, the smell of espresso mingling with the faint scent of rain from outside. My laptop screen glowed with open tabs: Darren’s player profile, betting patterns from the spreadsheet, and news clippings tied to Santoro’s name.

The more I cross-referenced, the more I found. Darren’s connection to the flagged games was undeniable, missed passes, botched plays, and penalties that seemed minor on the surface but added up in hindsight. And then there were the deposits. Each one timed suspiciously close to a major game, each one routed through a series of accounts that led straight back to Santoro.

This wasn’t just a rookie mistake. It was a pattern.

But the why still eluded me. Why would a kid with his whole future ahead of him risk everything? Darren wasn’t making league-shattering money, but he wasn’t starving, either. And Logan... Logan wouldn’t have taken him under his wing if he’d sensed something like this. Darren had to have been hiding it, but why?

The barista called my name, snapping me out of my thoughts. I grabbed my coffee and sat back down, staring at the open tabs as if they might suddenly rearrange themselves into the answers I needed.

Logan would have to know soon. But I couldn’t bring this to him half-formed. Not when it was his team, his reputation, and likely his heart on the line. He trusts me, but not over his teammates.

***

By evening, the rain had picked up, turning the city into a blurred mosaic of lights and motion. I’d made it back to my apartment, after spending more than a few hours lost in the cafe, setting up camp at the kitchen table with a growing pile of printouts, a contain of Pad See Ew and a fresh notebook. The evidence was damning, but it still felt incomplete. I needed more.

A quick search on my laptop revealed that Darren wasn’t just a rookie, he was the sole breadwinner for his family. His mother was a junkie, and his younger brother was heading into college soon. The financial pressure wasn’t just real, it must have been suffocating him. Suddenly, the bets didn’t feel so far-fetched. They felt desperate.

My phone buzzed, and I half-expected Logan’s name to flash on the screen. Instead, it was Jake.

Jake

Found something else. Call me.

I grabbed my phone, walking to the window as I dialed.

“What did you find?”

“You’re going to love this,” Jake said, the excitement in his voice undercut by something darker. “I cross-checked Santoro’s accounts with recent wire transfers, and guess what? One of the intermediaries has a connection to someone on the Hellblades’ management staff.”

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