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Twenty Six

Ava

T he arena was buzzing with excitement, the stands packed with fans who’d turned out for the Hellblades’ annual charity game. The event had all the makings of a lighthearted evening, players switching positions, ridiculous plays that made the crowd roar with laughter, and, of course, Logan looking effortlessly good at everything he did.

I stood just inside the press box, sipping from a paper cup of lukewarm coffee while Andrew McKay, Logan’s agent, lounged casually in a nearby seat. Despite his tailored suit and polished demeanor, Andrew didn’t look particularly invested in the game unfolding below us. He was scrolling through his phone, only glancing up every so often when the crowd erupted in cheers.

“Hockey’s a funny sport,” Andrew said, his tone light but edged with sarcasm. “It’s like a dance, but with more broken teeth.”

I smirked, setting my coffee down on the counter. “Is that supposed to be insightful?”

“Just an observation,” he said, shrugging as his eyes flicked to mine. “I’m more of a numbers guy. Goals, assists, contracts, that’s my arena. The actual game? It’s... fine.”

“Fine?” I echoed, arching a brow. “You’re representing one of the league’s top players, and you think hockey is just fine?”

Andrew grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “Relax, Carlisle. I’m not saying it’s boring. I’m saying it’s predictable. Puck goes in net. Crowd cheers. Repeat.”

I rolled my eyes, but the banter was surprisingly easy. For someone who was supposedly neck-deep in shady dealings, Andrew had a way of disarming people with his charm. Still, every word he said felt calculated, like he was testing me.

“You don’t have to stay up here, you know,” he added, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure Logan would love to have you rinkside, fawning over him like the rest of the girlfriends.”

The comment stung more than it should have, but I kept my expression neutral. “I’m here for the story, not the romance.”

“Of course you are,” Andrew said, his smirk widening. “But if you change your mind, I’m sure Logan won’t mind the extra distraction.”

Before I could respond, a loud cheer erupted from the crowd. I turned just in time to see Logan score an impressive goal from the far blue line, his grin visible even from where I stood. He raised his stick in a mock celebration, drawing laughter from the players and fans alike.

Andrew chuckled, shaking his head. “Show-off.”

I didn’t reply, my attention fixed on Logan as he skated back to the bench, his eyes scanning the stands. When he spotted me in the press box, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Despite the distance, it felt like a private moment, a reminder that he saw me even in the chaos.

The game ended in a flurry of cheers and autographs, the Hellblades raising over $600,000 for local youth programs. Logan, still glowing from the exhibition victory, still a W in his mind, found me near the locker room as the crowd began to disperse.

“Enjoy the game?” he asked, a lopsided grin on his face.

“It was entertaining,” I said, matching his smile. “But I think Andrew prefers spreadsheets to slap shots.”

Logan laughed, running a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah, he’s not exactly Mr. Team Spirit. Come on, we’re heading back to my place. Team tradition.”

“Your place?” I asked, arching a brow. “What happened to the standard bar crawl?”

“We mix it up for charity night,” Logan said, his grin widening. “Besides, my penthouse has better drinks and fewer paparazzi.”

By the time I arrived at Logan’s penthouse, the party was already in full swing. The team had traded their jerseys for casual clothes, but the energy in the room was the same—loud, boisterous, and unapologetically chaotic. Jaymie was holding court near the bar, regaling a small group with what sounded like an exaggerated version of tonight’s game, complete with wild hand gestures. Connor and Mallory were locked in a heated debate over the merits of nachos versus sliders, their laughter echoing over the music.

Logan appeared beside me, handing me a glass of wine. “You good?”

“Better now,” I said, taking a sip. The warmth of the drink spread through me, dulling some of the tension that had been knotted in my chest all day.

Logan leaned closer, his voice low enough for only me to hear. “Stay close. These guys are harmless, but they’ve had a long season. Things can get... rowdy.”

“Noted,” I said, hiding a smile as he smirked and disappeared into the crowd.

As the night wore on, the party shifted into that hazy space between loud fun and late-night confessions. The laughter grew a little louder, the jokes a little cruder, and the drinks flowed like water. I found myself laughing with the players, watching Logan slip effortlessly between host and teammate, his charisma lighting up the room.

But as the clock ticked past midnight, the mood shifted.

It started small—Darren, who had been hovering near the bar all night, knocking over an empty beer bottle and cursing loudly as it clattered to the floor. A few of the guys laughed it off, but I noticed the way Darren’s hands shook as he grabbed another drink. His movements were jittery, his eyes darting around the room like he was waiting for something—or someone—to jump out at him.

“Darren, you good?” Jaymie called from across the room, his tone light but curious.

Darren didn’t answer. Instead, he stumbled into the center of the room, his face flushed and his movements unsteady. He was holding a nearly empty beer bottle, waving it like a prop as he slurred his words.

“You know what’s funny?” he said loudly, his voice cutting through the noise and drawing the room’s attention. “Everyone thinks hockey’s about the team. About loyalty. But it’s all bullshit.”

The laughter and chatter died instantly, replaced by a tense, uneasy silence. All eyes turned to Darren, whose face twisted with something I couldn’t quite name—anger, fear, maybe both.

“Darren,” Logan said sharply, stepping forward. “Maybe it’s time to call it a night.”

Darren ignored him, his voice rising with every word. “No, I’m serious! You think these guys have your back? You think the league gives a damn about us? They don’t. They never did.”

“Hey, man, calm down,” Connor said, his tone cautious as he exchanged a look with Logan. But Darren wasn’t calming down. If anything, he was ramping up.

“They’re coming after me, Bennett,” Darren said, his voice cracking as his eyes darted around the room. “And I can’t—I can’t stop it. I tried. I tried to keep my head down, to play the game, but they don’t care. They don’t care about me. They don’t care about any of us.”

The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The players, who had been boisterous and carefree moments ago, now looked on with a mix of confusion and concern.

Logan stepped forward, his tone measured but firm. “Darren, let’s take this outside. Come on.”

But Darren shook his head, his expression wild. “What’s the point? They already know. They already know everything! You think they’re gonna stop? You think they’re just gonna let me walk away?”

His voice cracked, and for a moment, I thought he might break down completely. Logan moved quickly, closing the distance between them and grabbing Darren by the shoulders.

“Enough,” Logan said, his voice low but commanding. “We’re going outside. Now.”

Darren hesitated, his chest heaving as he looked around the room. His gaze flicked to me, his eyes wide and glassy, before he finally let Logan steer him toward the balcony. The door slid shut behind them, cutting off the muffled sound of Darren’s voice.

The rest of the team exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in the room palpable. I stood frozen, my mind racing with questions I didn’t know how to ask. Jaymie muttered something under his breath, shaking his head as he grabbed a drink from the bar.

“What the hell was that about?” Mallory asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

No one answered. The weight of Darren’s words lingered in the air, heavy and undeniable.