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Sixteen

Ava

T he buzz of Logan’s text interrupted my train of thought, pulling my focus from the sea of betting patterns I’d been drowning in all afternoon.

Logan

Back in town. Game tomorrow night. Want to come?

I stared at the screen, torn between irritation at his casual tone and relief that he hadn’t forgotten about me entirely. It had been eight days since the gala and seven since he’d left for a string of away games. Our texts had been light, surface-level banter, but the silence between them left a strange ache I didn’t want to analyze.

Logan had a way of slipping past my defenses, leaving me exposed in a way that both thrilled and terrified me. Every time his name lit up my phone, I felt a flicker of something I couldn’t name—something I wasn’t ready to admit. He wasn’t just a man; he was a story, a distraction, and maybe something more. And if I wasn’t careful, Logan Bennett might turn my world upside down.

Ava

I’ll think about it. I need to finish this article first.

His reply came almost immediately.

Logan

You can write it after. Good luck saying no to Jaymie’s nachos.

I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips. Logan Bennett, persistent as ever.

***

I spent most of the next day digging through the files attached to a mysterious email that had landed in my spam folder. The sender was anonymous, but the information was too compelling to ignore: detailed lists of games with suspiciously high betting activity, particularly on losses that should have been sure wins.

The implications were damning. These weren’t just random bad nights for the teams involved—they looked deliberate. Calculated. The kind of pattern that hinted at something much bigger, though I couldn’t yet see how it all connected.

Still, the email raised more questions than it answered. Who had sent it, and why? Why me? And how could I trust that this wasn’t some elaborate trap, or worse, complete fabrication?

I forwarded the email to myself, scrubbing any identifiers, and approached Jake, one of our staff fact-checkers. His cubicle was a chaotic mess of sticky notes, legal pads, and three monitors glowing with spreadsheets and reference databases.

Jake West was a tech wizard with the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel—unless, of course, you dangled a mystery in front of him. He thrived on puzzles, digital breadcrumbs, and the kind of investigative work that made my head spin. He also had a habit of dressing like he grabbed whatever was closest, which explained the faint coffee stain on his polo, just below the collar.

I leaned against the edge of his desk. “Hey, Jake. Got a second?”

“For you? Always,” he said, not bothering to look up, fingers flying over his keyboard.

“What’s the mystery?”

“Need a favor. Got an email with some interesting… claims. But I need to vet the sender first. Anonymous account, possibly encrypted, but I need to know if it’s legit before I waste my time on it.”

Jake’s fingers stilled, and he finally glanced up, arching an eyebrow. “Interesting claims? You know you’ve got my attention now, right?”

I smiled faintly. “Sorry to disappoint, but I can’t show you the contents yet. It’s sensitive.”

He sighed dramatically, the stain on his shirt shifting as he leaned back in his chair. “Fine, fine. No juicy details for Jake. Just forward me the headers, and I’ll dig in. You owe me a coffee, though.”

“Deal.”

Within a few hours, Jake emailed me back with his findings: the email had been routed through multiple servers, masking its origin. It wasn’t amateur-level stuff, which only made it more intriguing. He also flagged a domain linked to one of the intermediaries, something tied to offshore gambling accounts. The confirmation sent a thrill of both excitement and dread through me. The email was looking more credible, which meant I might be onto something real. But it also meant I was diving headfirst into dangerous waters.

I sat at my desk, staring at the files again. I knew Logan would have insight, but I also knew how much he hated talking about the players outside the league who got caught sports gambling last year, a few of which he had been good friends with a seen with many times before or after the games in question. The few times I’d broached the subject, his responses had been curt, guarded. Still, with my deadline looming and Frank’s not-so-subtle reminders about wanting dirt becoming increasingly hard to ignore, I had to try.

***

That night, I found myself in the Hellblades’ arena, sitting in Logan’s glass-side seats. The energy was infectious, the crowd roaring as the team took the ice. Logan caught my eye during warm-ups, his smirk making it clear he’d spotted me despite the chaos.

After a hard-fought game—one the Hellblades won with Logan scoring the game-winning goal, I followed the crowd toward the exit, only to be intercepted by Jaymie.

“You’re coming to the after-party, right?” he asked, his easy grin making it impossible to decline.

“I don’t know…” I hesitated, glancing toward the players’ lounge.

“Don’t think about it too hard,” Jaymie said, hooking an arm around my shoulders. “Come on. Logan said you’re cool.”

That earned an eye roll. “Well, if Logan said it…”

The party was at a bar not far from the arena, the kind of place that catered to athletes with its private VIP rooms and upscale-but-sporty décor. I’d expected the Hellblades to be standoffish, but they weren’t. They were loud, funny, and overwhelmingly welcoming. They continued to surpise me every time.

Connor Maddox, the team captain, handed me a drink and started telling me stories about Logan’s early days on the team. “He used to be such a hothead,” Connor said, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t listen to a damn word anyone said.”

“Still doesn’t,” Jaymie chimed in, earning a round of laughter.

As the night wore on, I found myself feeling strangely at home among them. These weren’t just teammates—they were family. And Logan, for all his bravado, was clearly the glue that held them together. But he was barely around, like he couldn't stand to be near me for more than a few seconds. We had locked eye numerous times but he never made a move to come towards where I was sitting. And I would be damned if I was going to make the first move after more than a week.

Later, as the crowd thinned, I spotted Logan leaning against the bar, his tie loose and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He looked tired, but his smile when he saw me was warm.

“Having fun?” he asked, handing me a glass of water.

“Surprisingly, yes,” I admitted. “Your team’s not as unbearable as I thought. You've been a ghost.”

He chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. “Sorry about that.They’re good guys. Pain in the ass sometimes, but good. I thought it would be good to get to know them, for your article.”

The scoff escaped my lips before I could control it.

"I didn't know how to act around you, in front of them," he reached out and tucked a blonde tresse behind my ear. "This is supposed to be for show, but I don't know where that line is anymore."

"I don't know either, but I like this," I placed my arms around his neck and pulled myself closer to him.

For a moment, we stood in companionable silence, the noise of the party fading into the background. Logan glanced at me, his gaze steady.

“Thanks for coming,” he said softly. “It means a lot.”

And for reasons I didn’t fully understand, it did.