Page 35

Thirty Five

Logan

I didn’t know how to stop.

For as long as I could remember, my entire life had been structured around hockey. Every second of my day, every decision I made, every sacrifice—it had always been for the game. Practices, road trips, workouts, film sessions, late nights at the gym. Even in the off-season, there were training camps, conditioning drills, routines designed to keep me at my peak.

Now, there was nothing.

No practices to show up for. No team meetings. No games. Everything suspened until further notice.

I had no purpose.

I had gone through injuries before, had even been benched for a handful of games in my early career, but this was different. This wasn’t temporary. There was no comeback plan, no rehab schedule, no trainer telling me how long it would take to get back on the ice.

This wasn’t an injury.

This was exile.

And I didn’t know who I was without hockey.

The first day after the suspension, I stayed in bed for hours. Staring at the ceiling. Ignoring the texts, the calls, the noise.

The second day, I drove.

I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, didn’t think much about it at all. I just got in the car and went. The Chicago skyline disappeared behind me, swallowed by empty roads and snow-covered fields. By the time I pulled into my grandfather’s long driveway, my hands were clenched so tight around the wheel my knuckles ached.

The pond in the backyard had frozen over completely, the same way it did every winter. It was where I had first learned to skate, where I had spent hours with my grandfather, chasing the puck across the ice until my legs were too sore to keep moving.

So that’s where I went.

I didn’t go inside. Didn’t call ahead. I just grabbed my gear from the trunk and stepped onto the ice, the wind biting through my jacket.

And I skated.

Lap after lap. Drills that meant nothing. Sprinting from one end to the other, cutting hard on my edges, sending sprays of ice into the air. Shooting at an empty net, retrieving the puck, shooting again.

Over and over.

The motions were instinctive, burned into my body after decades of repetition.

It should have felt grounding. Should have given me some sense of control, of familiarity.

But it didn’t.

Because no matter how fast I skated, no matter how hard I shot, it didn’t change the fact that I wasn’t doing this for a team anymore.

I wasn’t doing this for anything.

I was a man alone on the ice, clinging to something that was already slipping through my fingers.

Ava came to find me the next day.

I had been expecting it. She was the only one who hadn’t given up on me, the only one who refused to let me drown in my own self-destruction.

She stood at the edge of the pond, bundled up in a thick coat, her arms wrapped around herself as she watched me skate in endless circles.

I didn’t stop.

Didn’t acknowledge her.

But I felt her eyes on me, watching, worried.

She let me skate for a while, but eventually, when I skated too close to where she stood, she spoke.

“Logan.” Her voice was quiet, hesitant. “Come inside.”

I gritted my teeth and skated harder.

“Logan.”

I stopped abruptly, ice spraying around me as I turned to face her. My chest rose and fell with each breath, my lungs burning from the cold. “I’m fine.”

She took a careful step forward. “No, you’re not.”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “I’m skating, Ava. That’s all I’ve ever done. What’s the problem?”

She flinched at my tone but didn’t back down. “The problem is that you’re punishing yourself.”

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “I’m skating. That’s all this is.”

She didn’t look convinced. And the longer she stared at me, the tighter my chest felt.

Because I knew what she saw.

She saw a man clinging to something he had already lost.

She saw someone who was unraveling.

Ava swallowed. “I know this is hard—”

“You don’t know,” I snapped, the words out before I could stop them.

Her lips parted slightly, eyes widening just enough to make me feel like shit.

I sighed, dragging a hand down my face. “Ava—”

“No.” Her voice was steadier now, firm. “Say it.”

I turned my back to her, staring at the empty net in front of me.

I hated myself for lashing out at her. She wasn’t the enemy here. She never was.

But the frustration, the bitterness, the exhaustion—I had nowhere else to put it.

I shook my head. “You have your career, Ava. You did your job. I lost everything.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than I expected.

Ava didn’t say anything right away.

And fuck, I should have taken them back. I should have told her that it wasn’t her fault, that I wasn’t blaming her. But the damage was already done.

When I finally turned back to face her, she looked… tired.

Not angry.

Not even hurt.

Just tired.

Like she had been carrying the weight of both of us and was finally reaching her breaking point.

“Ava…” I started, but I didn’t know what else to say.

She inhaled sharply, looking away. “I’m gonna head back.”

“Ava—”

She didn’t let me finish. “I’ll see you when you’re ready. I'll be waiting, I want to wait…I want to help you through this too. It's always been real.”

She turned and walked toward the house, her boots crunching against the frozen ground.

I watched her leave, something hollow and aching settling in my chest.

Was this it?

Was this where we broke?

I squeezed my eyes shut, my grip tightening around my stick.

I had already lost my career. I had already lost everything I had spent my entire life building.

I couldn’t lose her too. I had to fix myself, and I had to fix this shit situatoin.

***

I was still on the ice when my phone rang.

I pulled it from my pocket, glancing at the screen.

A number I didn’t recognize.

I hesitated, then answered. “Yeah?”

A deep voice came through the line. “Logan Bennett?”

I frowned. “Who’s asking?”

There was a pause. Then: “My name is Patrick Thomas, I’m calling from the NHL executive office. We need to talk. There’s something we have to offer you.”

A chill ran down my spine.

I straightened, my grip tightening on the phone. “I’m listening.”