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Thirty Six

Logan

T he redeye to New York was miserable.

I barely slept, my mind running in endless circles, replaying everything that had happened over the last few days. The broadcast. The suspension. The fallout. Ava walking away from me.

And now, this.

An unexpected meeting with the NHL front office.

I didn’t know what to expect. The league had spent the last forty-eight hours scrambling to cover their own ass, pushing PR statements about thorough internal investigations and commitment to the integrity of the game. All of it was bullshit.

They didn’t care about the truth. They cared about control.

I landed at JFK just after six in the morning, caught a cab to the NHL’s headquarters in Midtown, and walked into the massive glass building with my shoulders squared. No agent. No lawyer. Just me.

It felt like walking into enemy territory.

A receptionist with perfectly curled hair and an artificial smile directed me to the top floor. The ride up in the elevator was silent, just the faint hum of machinery and the distant pounding of my pulse in my ears.

The doors opened with a quiet chime, and Patrick Thomas—the Chief Operating Officer of the NHL—was already waiting for me.

“Bennett,” he greeted, extending a hand. His grip was firm, practiced. The kind of handshake that made it clear he was used to getting his way. “Thanks for coming on short notice.”

I nodded but didn’t return the pleasantries. “I figured if the league wanted to talk, I should listen.”

His lips curved slightly, like I’d passed some kind of test, before he gestured toward a sleek glass-walled conference room. “Let’s talk.”

I stepped inside, noting how pristine it all was. The polished table. The filtered water already poured into a crystal glass at my seat. The framed jerseys of Hall of Famers on the walls, like ghosts of the game watching over every decision made here.

I didn’t sit right away.

Patrick Thomas lowered himself into his chair with the ease of a man who held all the power in the room. “I’ll get right to it,” he said. “The league is in trouble.”

I raised an eyebrow. “No shit.”

A small chuckle, but his expression didn’t waver. “The betting scandal is a nightmare. The arrests are piling up, the FBI isn’t going to let this go, and our reputation is bleeding out in real time.” He leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers together on the table. “But you already know that.”

I crossed my arms. “What do you want from me?”

His gaze sharpened. “We need a golden boy.” My eyes almost rolled so far back into my head they would have gotten stuck.

“We need a face of change,” he continued smoothly. “A player the league can rally behind. Someone who stood against corruption. Someone we can put on press tours, in front of cameras, talking about how we’re moving forward.”

I exhaled sharply, already seeing where this was going.

“You want to use me.”

Patrick smiled. “I want to reinstate you.”

I stiffened.

“That is—” he clarified, “if you cooperate.”

I didn’t sit. Didn’t move. Because this was exactly what I had expected. The league didn’t give a shit about justice. They just needed a way out. They would throw a handful of people under the bus…scapegoats, hand-picked sacrifices, but in the end, the NHL would survive. The league would stay intact, because it always did. And now, they wanted me to help them clean up their mess.

I tilted my head, keeping my voice even. “What does cooperation look like?”

Patrick didn’t blink. “You’ll work with us. Every statement you make, every interview you give, it will be done on our terms. You’ll frame this as an isolated problem—bad actors, not systemic corruption. You’ll push our reforms, stand by the commissioner when we announce changes.” He leaned back, like this was a reasonable offer. “You’ll be the face of the NHL’s redemption arc.”

I let the silence drag out, watching him.

Finally, I exhaled. “And if I say no?”

Patrick’s expression didn’t change. “Then you stay suspended. Indefinitely. Maybe permanently.”

I nodded slowly, processing. “And Darren?”

A pause. Just long enough for me to know the answer before he even said it.

“He’s… complicated,” Patrick said carefully. “He’s a key witness now. But if this thing escalates too far, there’s a real possibility that he’ll get pulled under. Some people will say he should have come forward sooner. Others will say he was complicit.” He spread his hands. “Collateral damage is inevitable.”

My stomach twisted.

Of course. Darren was never going to come out of this clean. Even if he’d been forced into the betting ring, even if he’d had no real choice, someone was going to make him the villain.

And Patrick Thomas was telling me, right now, that unless I agreed to their terms, they weren’t going to protect him.

“I want this in writing.”

Patrick smiled like he had expected that. “Of course.”

“I also don't want a new agent. Immediately.”

That caught him off guard. “Excuse me?”

I sat down for the first time, “McKay is done. He never served me well, clearly. If I'm going to be working directly with HQ, I don't need an agent, my lawyer will suffice.”

Patrick studied me for a moment, like he was recalibrating. “That’s… doable.”

I nodded. “Then send me the contract. I’ll have my lawyer look at it.”

His eyes flickered with approval. “Smart.”

I pushed my chair back and stood. “You already knew I’d say yes.”

He tilted his head. “I was reasonably sure.”

I scoffed. “The only way out is through, right?”

Patrick smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Something like that.”

I turned to leave, but before I reached the door, his voice stopped me.

“One more thing, Bennett.”

I glanced back.

Patrick’s expression had shifted—still composed, still carefully neutral, but something in his eyes was sharper now. A warning.

“Be careful who you trust.”

A cold feeling crept up my spine, but I didn’t let it show. I just gave him a slow nod before walking out of the room.

The second I stepped into the elevator, I pulled out my phone.

I hesitated for half a second—thinking about Ava, about the way I had pushed her away—but then I pressed her name and brought the phone to my ear.

She picked up after two rings. “Logan?”

I exhaled. “I need to see you.”

A pause. “Are you okay?”

No.

Not even close.

But I just said, “I don’t know.”

Another pause, then, softer: “Where are you?”

“New York,” I muttered. “But I’ll be back tonight.”

She exhaled, like she was considering something. “Come over when you land.”

I closed my eyes. “Yeah.”

The line went quiet for a beat. Then, before I could overthink it, I said, “Ava?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

A pause.

Then, softly: “I know.”

The line clicked dead.

I let out a breath, leaning my head back against the elevator wall.

The only way out was through.

And I had no idea if I was ready for what came next.