Page 39

One Year Later

T he arena was electric.

A sea of red and black jerseys filled the stands, the roar of the crowd vibrating through the glass as the final seconds of the third period ticked down. The Hellblades were up by two, and unless a miracle happened for the other team, they were about to seal the win.

Logan skated hard, cutting through the ice with effortless precision, his body moving like he was born for this. And maybe he was. Maybe all the struggle, the chaos, the battles he’d fought to get back here had been leading to this moment. A year ago, he had no idea if he’d ever play again. Now? He was leading his team into the playoffs, one step closer to a Cup run.

I smiled to myself, sipping my drink as I leaned back against the plush seats of the Hellblades’ private box. It still felt surreal, watching him out there, knowing everything we had been through to get here. But this was our life now. And for the first time in a long time, it felt steady. I hadn’t taken any of the job offers that flooded my inbox after the scandal.

ESPN. The New York Times. Even Sports Illustrated had reached out. But I didn’t want to be the girl who broke the biggest hockey story of the decade forever. So instead, I had pitched something new. An investigative documentary series with Vice—hard-hitting, real stories that had nothing to do with sports. The first season was already in production, and I was thriving. I got to chase stories that mattered, uncover corruption in places far bigger than the NHL, and dig into the kind of investigative journalism that had always been my end goal.

The best part? I had Logan in my corner, always cheering me on, always supporting me the way I had supported him. That was how we worked. We weren’t perfect, but we had each other. Somewhere between Logan’s reinstatement and the start of the season, I had given up my apartment and moved into his. At first, I thought it would be an adjustment, but it wasn’t. It just fit.

Like I had been meant to be there all along. And then, sometime between training camp and my first big shoot with Vice, we had flown to Vegas and gotten married. No big production. No extravagant event. Just us, a sleek white dress, a perfectly tailored suit, and a lot of laughing in a tiny chapel on the strip.

Of course, we made sure to take plenty of photos for our friends and family so they wouldn’t riot. Jaymie had nearly choked when we FaceTimed him from a rooftop bar with matching wedding bands.

"Are you kidding me, Bennett? You eloped and didn’t invite me?"

Mallory had just shaken her head, sipping her drink. "Honestly, I saw this coming."

We had promised a bigger party when we got back to Chicago, but I knew we had done it exactly the way we were meant to. Just us. No expectations. No stress. Just the way we lived our lives.

Kids weren’t part of the equation. Not now. Maybe not ever. And the best part? Neither of us felt like we were missing out. We loved our life the way it was—fast, unpredictable, filled with spontaneous weekend trips and quiet nights wrapped up in each other. We had no desire to change it. Every once in a while, someone would ask, So, when are the little hockey players coming? Logan would smirk and pull me against him, his voice dripping with amusement as he answered, We’re good with just the two of us. And we were. We really were.

The final buzzer blared, shaking me from my thoughts. The Hellblades had won.

I watched as Logan was immediately swarmed by his teammates, their energy contagious. He skated back toward the bench, pulling off his helmet, running a hand through his damp hair.

Then he turned, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on me.

And just like that, it was just us.

A slow smile tugged at his lips as he lifted his stick slightly in my direction, a silent acknowledgment. I lifted my drink in return, shaking my head.

Some things were worth the risk.

And loving Logan Bennett?

That had been the best gamble of my life.