Page 13

Thirteen

Ava

T he moment I stepped into my apartment, the familiar creak of the door and the hum of my refrigerator greeted me. Normally, those sounds grounded me. They reminded me of where I stood, on solid footings, in control of my own world. But tonight, they felt... off. Like everything was too quiet, and the noise in my head was too loud. Spending time with Logan and his grandpa had me headed into a tail spin.

I set my bag down on the tiny kitchen table and leaned against the counter, staring at the half-empty coffee mug I’d left behind that morning. My laptop sat open on the couch, the screen dark except for the faint glow of the cursor blinking in an unfinished document. I’d planned to come home and dive into research—Logan’s career stats, the gambling rumors, anything that might help me untangle this story. But instead, all I could think about was the smell of garlic knots and the sound of Grandad’s laugh.

Logan Bennett. Just when I thought I had him figured out, he went and threw me for a loop.

He wasn’t supposed to be like this—kind, patient, unguarded. The way he talked about his grandma, the way he looked at his grandad like the man hung the moon... it wasn’t the image I’d built of him in my head. It wasn’t the arrogant, cocky athlete I’d been determined to write off. And yet, there he was. Sitting across from me at that worn dining table, telling me stories about falling six times in his first hockey game, only to get back up and score twice. Laughing when his grandad teased him about his temper. Watching me with those warm, knowing eyes that seemed to see more than I wanted him to.

I shook my head, pushing off the counter. This wasn’t supposed to matter. This was a job. A story. And Logan Bennett was just a subject—a means to an end. The byline, the recognition, the paycheck that could finally start chipping away at my dad’s medical bills. That’s what mattered.

Not the way he’d said, “Thanks for coming. It meant a lot to him. And... to me.”

Not the way my chest had tightened at the quiet sincerity in his voice.

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face as I grabbed my laptop and flopped onto the couch. I opened my research folder, scrolling through stats and articles, trying to drown out the lingering warmth of the evening. Focus, Ava. You have two weeks to get this done. Frank’s words echoed in my mind, a harsh reminder of the stakes. I couldn’t afford to let feelings—whatever this weird pull toward Logan was—cloud my judgment.

My phone buzzed,

Logan:

Hope you’re not working too hard. You earned a night off.

I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Don’t push your luck, Bennett.

I hesitated for a second before adding

Thanks for tonight. Your grandad’s great.

The dots appeared almost immediately.

He liked you. Said you’ve got spunk. He called me after I dropped you off.

Told him I already knew that.

I couldn’t help it—a smile tugged at my lips. Damn him.

I set the phone down, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. It wasn’t supposed to feel... anything. And yet, here I was. Caught between the story I had to write and the person I was starting to see beneath it.

***

The next morning, I was sipping coffee and staring at my laptop, pretending to be productive when my phone buzzed on the table. Logan’s name flashed on the screen, and I hesitated for a moment before swiping to open the message.

Logan

Feel like sitting glass-side again tonight?

Are you trying to distract me from writing an exposé about you?

Maybe.

Come early this time. I’ll give you a tour of the locker room. Talk to the guys, get some quotes. You can actually use them in your article instead of whatever Frank’s probably pushing for.

My lips twitched despite myself. Of course, Logan knew exactly what kind of pressure I was under. It was annoying how perceptive he could be sometimes.

And what’s in it for you?

I look like a team player. You look like a reporter doing her job. Everybody wins.

And I get to see your pretty face again.

you said glass seats correct?

Thats what your hung up on? yes, glass seats baby. Just for you.

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at my lips. Logan was impossible to say no to, and maybe, just maybe, I wanted to see him in his element again.

Fine, count me in

Be there by five.

Later that evening, I pulled into the players’ lot at the arena, feeling out of place even though Logan had texted me the gate code. The rows of sleek SUVs and luxury sedans screamed wealth, and my compact car stuck out like a sore thumb. Logan was waiting near the entrance, leaning against the wall in a black Hellblades hoodie and matching joggers. His arms were crossed, and he straightened as soon as he saw me, that trademark grin already in place.

“Nice ride,” he teased as I climbed out.

“Not all of us are NHL stars with sponsorship deals,” I shot back, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

He laughed, falling into step beside me. “Fair. But hey, you made it. Ready for your behind-the-scenes exclusive?”

"I cant wait," and I meant it.

Instead the arena, the energy of the arena felt different when it was empty. The quiet hum of activity in the background was a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd on game night. Logan led me through a series of hallways, pausing occasionally to nod at passing staff or players. When we reached the locker room, the smell of sweat and tape hit me immediately. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was distinct—sharp and alive, like the space carried the tension and adrenaline of every game played here.

“Welcome to the inner sanctum,” Logan said, pushing the door open with a dramatic flair.

Inside, players milled around, some still in their warm-up gear, others lounging in chairs or scrolling through their phones. The walls were lined with jerseys and motivational quotes, and the centerpiece was a large Hellblades logo painted on the floor.

“Don’t step on the logo,” Logan warned, his tone half-joking but serious enough to make me stop mid-step.

“Noted,” I said, glancing around.

“Guys, Guys,” Logan called out, clapping his hands. “This is Ava Carlisle. She’s writing a piece about the team, so try to act like you’re not complete degenerates for five minutes.”

A chorus of sarcastic replies and laughter followed, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Jaymie said, stepping forward with a grin. “Logan’s the biggest degenerate here.”

“Keep talking, Prescott,” Logan shot back. “See who gets the puck tonight.”

The banter was effortless, and as I moved through the room, jotting down notes and chatting with a few of the players, I started to understand why Logan loved this world so much. It wasn’t just the game, it was the camaraderie, the sense of belonging. The locker room wasn’t just a space; it was a second home, alive with energy and history.

When I’d gathered enough material to satisfy my article, Logan appeared by my side, a towel slung over his shoulder and his hoodie stretching across broad shoulders that seemed designed to ruin my focus.

“Ready to head back out?” he asked, his warm brown eyes locking onto mine.

“Yeah,” I said, forcing myself to look at anything but the way the fabric clung to his biceps. “Thanks for letting me do this. It’s not something most people get to see.”

“Most people aren’t you,” he replied, his voice lower, quieter.

I swallowed hard, the easy rhythm of our banter suddenly shifting into something heavier, something unspoken.

Logan gestured toward the door, and I followed him out of the locker room, the hum of the arena growing louder as we moved closer to the concourse. The hallway felt impossibly long, the air thick with the unspoken tension building between us.

When we reached the entrance to the glass-side seating, Logan stopped, turning to face me. “So,” he said, his usual smirk softening into something closer to genuine. “You ready to watch me make this team look good?”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth tugged upward. “Confident, aren’t you?”

“Always,” he said, his grin widening.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The sounds of the arena faded into the background, leaving just the two of us in the bubble of the moment.

“Seriously,” I said, my voice quieter now. “Thanks for tonight. It’s... more than I expected.”

Logan tilted his head, studying me with a look that felt too knowing, too personal. “You’re welcome. But don’t think for a second this is all for you. I like having you here.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but before I could, Logan stepped closer, his hand brushing against mine. The move was subtle, almost hesitant, as if he was giving me the chance to pull away.

I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself get caught in the pull of him—the warmth of his proximity, the way his honey-colored eyes seemed to search for something in mine.

And his lips came down to meet mine.

It wasn’t rushed or demanding. It was steady, deliberate, and so perfectly Logan that it left me dizzy. His lips moved against mine with a confidence that felt earned, his hand coming up to lightly brush my cheek as he deepened the kiss just enough to leave me breathless.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark and searching, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his usual swagger.

“Good luck out there,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

His lips quirked upward. “I don’t need luck, Carlisle. I’ve got you watching.”

I rolled my eyes, stepping past him and toward my seat. But even as I sat down, the taste of him lingered, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to focus on anything else.

I needed to get a grip.

This was fake.

I had to keep reminding myself of that—over and over again, until it stuck. We were putting on a show for the press, playing our roles, making sure Logan looked like the golden boy the media wanted him to be. That was the whole point of this arrangement. Not the way my pulse stuttered every time he touched me. Not the warmth that curled in my stomach when his lips brushed mine. Not the way my body still hummed with the ghost of his kiss.

I forced a slow breath, willing my heart to settle. It was just a role. A carefully crafted illusion.

So why did it feel so damn real?

Logan

The energy in the arena was charged, but my head was anywhere but on the ice. Every time I settled into position, the kiss with Ava replayed in my mind like a highlight reel I couldn’t stop watching. Her taste, her touch, the way her hazel eyes softened for just a second before she leaned into me—it was all I could think about.

Which was a problem, because the Colorado Colts weren’t here to make things easy.

The first period was a mess. The Colts were fast, aggressive, and they knew how to exploit our weaknesses. Their captain, Brett Hanley, was everywhere, setting up plays like he’d written the damn rulebook. Five minutes in, they scored on a rebound that bounced off one of our defensemen’s skates. Ten minutes later, they did it again on a clean one-timer that left our goalie floundering.

We looked disjointed. Every pass was a second too slow, every shot was a little off-target. And me? I was distracted as hell. My skates felt heavier than usual, my focus slipping every time I caught a glimpse of Ava sitting glass-side. She was leaning forward, her gaze sharp and focused, oblivious to the chaos I was wading through on the ice.

When the buzzer sounded to end the first period, we skated off down two, and I was in my own head, trying to shake off the weight of it all.

The second period started rough, and it didn’t take long for the frustration to boil over. Hanley had been throwing his weight around all night, chirping at anyone within earshot and playing just dirty enough to keep the refs’ whistles in their pockets. Midway through, he took it too far. Jaymie was chasing the puck along the boards when Hanley stuck out his skate, tripping him hard into the glass.

Jaymie went down in a heap, and the refs’ arms stayed stubbornly at their sides. The entire bench erupted, and before I could even react, Jaymie was on his feet, his gloves flying off before Hanley could blink. The fight was brutal from the jump. Jaymie threw a sharp right hook that caught Hanley on the cheekbone, followed by an uppercut that knocked the captain’s helmet loose. The crowd roared as Hanley stumbled, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. He grabbed Jaymie by the collar, yanking him off balance before landing a heavy shot to his jaw.

The refs started circling, but no one was stepping in yet. Hanley wrestled Jaymie to the ice, shoving him down harder than necessary. That’s when I saw red.

I didn’t think. I just reacted. My gloves hit the ice before I even reached them, and I grabbed Hanley by the front of his jersey, yanking him up and away from Jaymie. His eyes went wide for half a second before my fist connected with his jaw. The first hit stunned him, but I didn’t stop. I shoved him hard against the boards, following up with a cross-check that sent his helmet flying. He tried to swing, but I ducked, landing a clean shot to his ribs that had him gasping.

“Stay the hell away from my teammates,” I snarled, shoving him again for good measure.

Hanley finally managed to regain his footing, his lip split and blood trickling from his nose. He swung wild, catching me on the shoulder, but I barely felt it. I stepped in, driving my fist into his stomach with enough force to double him over.

By then, the refs swarmed us, pulling me off him as the crowd erupted into deafening cheers and boos. My chest heaved, adrenaline pumping as they shoved me toward the penalty box. Hanley smirked through the blood, and it took everything I had not to lunge at him again.

“You’ll regret that, Bennett,” he called, his voice hoarse.

“Not as much as you will,” I shot back, glaring at him as they dragged us in opposite directions.

Jaymie got tossed from the game for instigating, which pissed me off even more. Hanley got a weak two-minute penalty for tripping— tripping! —while I got slapped with a five-minute major for fighting. It was bullshit, and the whole bench knew it.

When I skated into the box, still seething, my gaze automatically went to the glass. Ava was on her feet, her face flushed with anger as she banged on the glass with both hands. Her mouth was moving, yelling something at the refs I couldn’t hear over the noise of the arena. The sight of her, fierce, loyal, and completely unrestrained, lit something in me I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I sat back in the box, the anger in my chest easing just enough to let a hint of a smirk tug at my lips. Whatever Hanley thought he was going to do, I wasn’t done. And Ava? She’d see exactly what kind of player she was backing tonight.

By the time I stepped back onto the ice for the third period, I was laser-focused. The score was still 2-0, and the clock was ticking. If we were going to pull this off, it was going to take everything we had.

I wasn’t about to let Hanley or the Colts get the last word. Seven minutes in, I caught a perfect pass from Connor, deking the defenseman and burying the puck top-shelf. The crowd erupted, and I skated back to the bench with a smirk, tapping my stick against Connor’s as we passed. A few shifts later, Connor returned the favor. I threaded the puck through two Colts players, and Connor blasted it into the net, tying the game. The momentum was ours now, and the arena was buzzing with anticipation. With two minutes left on the clock, the Colts made a desperate push, but our defense held strong. I got the puck on a breakaway, skating full speed toward the net. The goalie lunged, but I faked left and went right, slipping the puck past his outstretched pad.

Goal.

The crowd went wild, and I could hear Ava screaming even above the chaos. I turned, pointing at the glass where she stood, her arms in the air and a grin that matched my own.

When the final buzzer sounded, the Hellblades had pulled off a 3-2 win. My teammates mobbed me on the ice, the energy electric as we celebrated. But even in the chaos, my eyes drifted back to Ava. She was clapping and shouting, her excitement as genuine as it was contagious.

For the first time in a long time, the game wasn’t just about the win. It was about who was watching.

The press conference dragged on longer than usual, the same questions cycling back and forth. I gave them what they wanted, stats, thoughts on the game, the usual soundbites—but my mind was already elsewhere. By the time I made it out of the media room and toward the players’ lot, I spotted Ava immediately.

She was sitting on one of the couches just before the exit, her laptop balanced on her knees and her brow furrowed in concentration. The glow from the screen lit up her face, her fingers flying over the keys as she worked. She was so focused that she didn’t even notice me approaching.

“Writing about how great I am?” I teased, leaning against the arm of the couch.

She startled, looking up sharply before rolling her eyes. “More like trying to make sense of the chaos you dragged me into tonight.”

I grinned, dropping into the seat beside her. “Chaos sells, doesn’t it?”

She huffed a laugh but didn’t look away from her screen. “It does, but that fight’s going to make waves. You sure you’re okay with me covering it?”

I leaned back, stretching my arm across the back of the couch. “Do what you need to do, Ava. Just make sure you mention my assist on Connor’s goal.”

Her lips twitched, but she didn’t respond. Instead, her fingers paused over the keyboard as her gaze flicked to me. “What are you still doing here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be celebrating with your team?”

“I figured I’d see if you were free next week.” Her brows rose, and I smirked, continuing, “The team’s hosting a charity gala for the ASPCA. Big event, black tie, lots of cameras. Thought you might want to come.”

Her expression shifted, a mix of surprise and something I couldn’t quite pin down. “A black-tie gala? Logan, I don’t exactly have a closet full of ball gowns.”

I shrugged, pulling my wallet out of my pocket and slipping a credit card onto her laptop. “Then get one.”

Ava froze, staring at the card like it might bite her. “Are you serious?”

“As a penalty box,” I said, grinning at her stunned expression. “Go crazy, Ava. My treat.”

Her mouth opened to protest, but no sound came out. I reached out, gently pressing two fingers under her chin to close it. “You’ll need something that turns heads. Trust me, you’ll look incredible.”

The blush creeping up her neck was a rare sight, and it hit me harder than it should have. Before she could recover, I leaned in, brushing a quick kiss against her lips. Just enough to leave her breathless but not enough to give her time to argue.

“See you soon,” I murmured, standing and heading for the exit without looking back.

Her stunned silence followed me out the door, and I couldn’t help the smug grin spreading across my face.