Page 11

Eleven

Ice, Sweat, and Swagger: Logan Bennett and the Hellblades’ Electrifying Win

By Ava Carlisle – December 12, 2016

S itting glass-side at last night’s Hellblades game was an experience that can only be described as electrifying. From the heart-pounding action on the ice to the deafening roar of the crowd, it was a reminder of why hockey holds such a unique place in Chicago’s sports culture. The Hellblades took on the Carolina Cats, a team known for their aggressive forechecking and relentless pursuit of the puck. But despite the pressure, the Hellblades showcased not just their skill but their chemistry, a testament to what can happen when a team truly works as a unit.

And no one embodied that chemistry more than Logan Bennett.

The Hellblades’ star forward played with the kind of focus that’s earned him a reputation as one of the league’s most formidable players. Known for his effortless swagger and raw talent, Bennett was a force in all three zones, threading impossible passes and setting up the game-winning assist in a moment of pure instinct and precision. His ability to read the ice, to anticipate plays before they happened, was on full display—and nowhere was that more evident than in the final minute of the game.

With the score locked at 2-2 and just forty-five seconds remaining on the clock, the Hellblades pressed into Carolina’s zone. Jaymie Prescott carried the puck up the wing, but with a defenseman closing in, he sent a quick drop pass back to Darren Rivers, who pivoted and found Bennett at the blue line. The Cats’ defense collapsed in on him immediately, forcing him to make a split-second decision.

Bennett didn’t panic.

With a quick deke, he faked a shot, forcing Carolina’s goalie to lunge just enough to leave the net exposed. That was all he needed. Instead of taking the shot himself, he sent a clean, no-look pass to Prescott, who was waiting at the back post. Prescott didn’t hesitate—his one-timer rang off the inside of the post and into the back of the net before the goalie even had time to react.

The entire arena erupted.

“Hell of a pass, Bennett!” Prescott shouted as he was mobbed by his teammates. The scoreboard flashed 3-2, Hellblades. The bench emptied onto the ice, gloves flew in the air, and the energy inside the United Center was nothing short of electric.

But it wasn’t just that final, highlight-reel moment that stood out. Sitting so close to the ice, you notice the things the cameras don’t always catch—the quick glances between players, the near-telepathic understanding of where a teammate will be, the way they communicate through taps of the stick or a subtle shift in positioning. It was clear that the Hellblades weren’t just a collection of skilled athletes; they were a team in every sense of the word.

Bennett, Rivers, and Prescott were a perfect example of that. The way they moved together on the ice, anticipating each other’s plays without hesitation, spoke to the kind of trust and chemistry that takes seasons to build. Rivers, with his sharp defensive instincts, was the anchor, keeping the play alive and feeding his teammates opportunities. Prescott, always quick on his skates, knew exactly where to be when Bennett made his move. And Bennett? He was the orchestrator, the kind of player who made everyone around him better.

Off the ice, Bennett’s reputation has been under scrutiny in recent weeks. His name has been making headlines for reasons that have nothing to do with hockey. But watching him play, it’s impossible to ignore the dedication and effort he brings to the game. Whatever challenges he’s facing off the ice, they don’t seem to shake his focus on it. His performance last night was proof of that.

As the final buzzer sounded and the Hellblades celebrated their hard-fought victory, the cheers inside the arena didn’t die down—they only grew louder, echoing long after the players left the ice. It was a reminder of what makes sports so magnetic—the thrill of the game, the unpredictability of each moment, and the unbreakable connection between a team and its fans.

For the Hellblades, it wasn’t just another win. It was a statement.

And for Logan Bennett, it was a step toward reminding Chicago why he’s the star this city can’t stop watching.

Ava

I barely had time to set my bag down before Amber, the receptionist, flagged me down. The newsroom was alive with its usual symphony of chaos—phones ringing, the clatter of keyboards as people pound out articles, and the hum of overlapping conversations. “Frank’s looking for you,” she said, her tone somewhere between a warning and pity. “He’s been pacing since he read your article.”

I nodded, already bracing myself. “Thanks, Amber.”

My thoughts drifted to the article I’d written the night before. It had been late when I finally hit submit, the kind of late where the city was quiet, and the only light in my apartment came from the glow of my laptop screen. But it had been good—damn good. I’d captured the energy of the game, the camaraderie of the team, and the way Logan Bennett commanded attention on and off the ice. It wasn’t just a game recap; it was a glimpse into the heart of the Hellblades. Sitting glass-side had given me a perspective I couldn’t have gotten anywhere else, and I’d poured that perspective into every line.

For once, I’d felt like the kind of journalist I’d always wanted to be—not just chasing clicks but telling a story that mattered. The kind of story that made people stop and feel something, even if only for a moment. So, yeah, I was proud of it. And maybe that was why my stomach churned now, knowing Frank would probably tear it apart anyway. To him, it wasn’t about the story—it was about the scandal. The juice. The stuff that made headlines, whether it was true or not.

By the time I reached Frank’s office, I didn’t need to knock. The door was open, and Frank was leaning back in his chair, a printed copy of my article in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. His tie was already askew, and his expression was that familiar mix of annoyed and unimpressed.

“Carlisle,” he barked, motioning me in. “Close the door.”

“Here we go,” I muttered under my breath, squaring my shoulders before stepping inside.

I did as he asked, sitting in the chair across from his desk. “You wanted to see me?”

He slapped the paper down in front of him. “What is this?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “It’s the article you assigned me. The one about the Hellblades’ game.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “This is fluff. Feel-good bullshit about teamwork and chemistry. I don’t need a game recap—I can get that from a box score. What I need is the juice, Carlisle. Where’s the dirt? The gambling details? The behind-the-scenes chaos?”

I stiffened. “That wasn’t the story I set out to write.”

Frank leaned forward, his beady eyes narrowing. “That’s the story we need. The city doesn’t care about passes and goals—they care about scandal. You’ve got Bennett on a leash, so use him. Get him to crack. I want something that sells.”

“He’s not on a leash,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I’m not going to make things up just to satisfy some clickbait quota.”

Frank smirked, like I’d just told a joke only he found funny. “Spare me the journalistic integrity speech. You want to climb the ladder, don’t you? Make a name for yourself? Then give me something that’ll make readers talk.”

“I’m working on it,” I said evenly, though my hands tightened in my lap. “But I’m not going to compromise my integrity for a cheap headline.”

“Integrity doesn’t pay the bills, Carlisle,” he shot back. “You’ve got two weeks. If you don’t come up with something better, I’ll find someone who will.”

The dismissal was clear. I stood, biting back the dozen things I wanted to say. Arguing with Frank was like arguing with a brick wall—you’d just end up with a headache. As I stepped out of his office, Amber caught my eye from her desk, raising her eyebrows in silent question. I shook my head, letting out a frustrated sigh. Back at my desk, I stared at my open laptop, Frank’s words echoing in my mind. Two weeks. That was all the time I had to find something that would satisfy him without betraying my own standards.

I sat at my desk, staring at the blinking cursor on my laptop. No matter how many times I tried to refocus, my mind kept wandering back to Frank’s ultimatum and the impossible balancing act it created.

Before I could overthink it, I grabbed my phone and typed out a quick text to Logan.

Ava

What are you doing tonight?

It felt like a dangerous text to send. Too casual. Too... open. But I needed something—anything—to shift my focus, and Logan had a way of keeping me on my toes.

My phone buzzed almost immediately.

Logan

Is this an attempt at a pre scheduled booty call?

Very funny.

I thought so. But seriously, I’m heading to my grandad’s. Why?

I paused, caught off guard. For all his cocky swagger and playful deflections, I hadn’t expected that.

Your grandad’s?

Yeah. I check in on him every week. He’s... not as steady as he used to be.

The honesty in his reply gave me pause. This was a side of Logan I hadn’t seen before, and for some reason, it made me curious. There wasn't much online about Logan's family situation. There were the usual college stats and some articles from when he was coming up playing juniors, but nothing with depth.

Want company?

The three little dots indicating his reply appeared and disappeared twice before his message came through.

Sure. Pick you up at 6.