Page 4

Four

Ava

L ogan Bennett was frustratingly unforgettable. And I hated that.

It wasn’t just that he was six-foot-five of cocky swagger, with skin that looked like it soaked up the sun for a living. Or that his dark buzz cut managed to make "effortless" look like a professional sport. No, it was those damn eyes. Warm brown, framed by lashes so long they could probably cause a breeze if he blinked too hard. The kind of eyes that made you forget, for half a second, that he was as smug as he was good-looking.

The worst part? He knew exactly what he was working with. Guys like Logan Bennett always did. He probably had women throwing themselves at him before he hit puberty. And from the way he’d leaned on the bar last night, grinning like he had the world on a leash, it was obvious he’d never been told no in his life.

Which made it all the more satisfying when I’d thrown his own scandal back in his face and watched that grin falter. Just for a second.

Still, I hated that he’d stuck with me—like a catchy song you didn’t want stuck in your head. This wasn’t about him. It was about the story. The job. And I wasn’t about to let some oversized golden boy with too much charm and too many headlines derail me. I spent the better part of the morning sifting through articles about his scandal, trying to focus on facts and not the way his smug grin at the bar had practically dared me to dig deeper. He wasn’t supposed to stick in my mind like this, not when my job was to dissect him, not admire the way he’d deflected my questions with infuriating charm.

“Carlisle!” Frank’s bark made me jump. “How’s the exclusive coming? Or are you still pretending to work over there?”

I clenched my jaw and turned to see him barreling toward my desk, coffee in one hand and a bagel that looked like it had seen better days in the other. He was already chewing before he reached me.

“It’s not coming because Bennett’s not exactly handing out interviews,” I said flatly, refusing to rise to his bait. She had failed to make it past the receptionist of the Hellblades before being hungup on.

Frank leaned against the edge of my desk, crumbs falling onto my keyboard.

“He will if you push the right buttons. Go big, Carlisle. I don’t want another generic ‘athlete on the rocks’ story. I want fireworks.”

I forced a smile. “You want a headline. I’ll get the truth.”

“Great. Just make sure it's the real truth that sells.” He sauntered off, leaving the faint smell of onions in his wake.

I sighed and turned back to my screen, scrolling through yet another speculative piece about Logan’s lady habits. The deeper I dug, the murkier it got. Anonymous sources, vague accusations—it was all smoke, no fire. Which meant if I wanted answers, I’d have to get them straight from the source.

The call came that afternoon. The Hellblades’ PR team had finally caved, after many phone calls and emails to their office begging for a connection, offering a tightly controlled interview with Logan Bennett.

Twenty minutes.

Pre-approved questions.

Enough hoops to jump through to make a goodlen doodle dizzy.

I wasn’t about to pass it up.

***

The next day, I arrived at the Hellblades’ headquarters armed with my laptop, voice recorder, and a game face that could crack steel. The building was all glass and chrome, sleek and spotless. A receptionist led me to a conference room that felt just as cold—high ceilings, minimalist furniture, and a long table that made me feel like I was about to interrogate a mob boss instead of a hockey player.

I didn’t have to wait long. The door opened, and Logan strolled in like he owned the place. He was in casual clothes this time—jeans and a fitted black Henley that somehow made him look even more annoyingly confident. His honey-colored eyes landed on me, and his lips curled into that signature grin.

“Miss me already?” he drawled, sliding into the seat across from me.

Of course, he led with a line. His grin was the same as it had been at the bar, easy and confident, like the world existed purely to entertain him. It was irritatingly magnetic, which only made me want to shut it down faster.

I set my notebook on the table, keeping my expression neutral. “Not even a little. But thanks for making time between scandals.”

His grin faltered, just barely. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make me feel like I’d scored the first point. “Right to the point, huh? Guessing small talk isn’t your thing.”

“Not when there’s a story to tell.” I leaned forward slightly, mirroring his casual posture but injecting my own edge. “So, Bennett, what’s it like being the center of a media circus?”

His jaw tightened, though his smirk stayed in place. “It’s like being a human dartboard. Except the darts are rumors, and none of them bother to aim.”

I tilted my head, jotting down a note but keeping my focus on him. He was good at this, deflecting with just enough charm to disarm most people. But I wasn’t most people. “Interesting analogy,” I said, my pen poised over the page. “And yet, where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.”

His eyes darkened, a flicker of frustration breaking through his mask of calm. “You think I lit the match?”

“I think someone did. Maybe you. Maybe not. That’s what I’m here to find out.” And I was.

The rumors had been swirling for weeks, ever since that photo of Logan with a questionable woman on his arm, stubbling out of a Vegas casino had gone viral. It wasn’t just the image, it was the whispers of bets placed on games, including his own, on top of the strip club circus. Those whispers had turned into accusations: Logan Bennett, golden boy of the Hellblades, allegedly tied to illegal gambling operations. Some reports claimed he’d been betting on other leagues to avoid scrutiny, while others outright accused him of influencing games. No hard evidence, just enough smoke to make the league’s PR team sweat buckets.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. The movement stretched his black Henley over his broad shoulders, and I had to force myself not to notice. “You’re not like the other reporters, are you?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.” His grin widened, showing teeth this time—a little sharper, a little less friendly. “But I do like a challenge. Whats question number one?”

I almost rolled my eyes. Classic Bennett. Everything was a game to him, an opportunity to win. He probably thought he was still holding the upper hand, even with his reputation dangling by a thread. That arrogance should have made him easy to dismiss, but there was something underneath it. A flicker of… what? Annoyance? Vulnerability? Maybe both.

“Well,” I said, meeting his gaze head-on. “You’re about to get one.”

Logan

I shoved the door open harder than necessary, ignoring the startled glance from the PR assistant stationed outside the conference room. My jaw ached from how tightly I’d been clenching it, and the air outside felt sharp and cold against my skin. I didn’t care. I needed to cool off. Ava Carlisle. She’d done her homework, I’d give her that. She wasn’t like the usual crowd of reporters who asked the same recycled questions and waited for me to feed them the same polished answers. She’d dug deeper, prodded harder, and she’d managed to make me look like an ass without even breaking a sweat.

I hated it. And yet, a small part of me couldn’t help but admire it.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me out of my thoughts. I didn’t have to check to know who it was. With a resigned sigh, I pulled it out and hit accept.

“What the hell was that?” Andrew’s voice was sharp, his frustration evident even through the phone. “We agreed on talking points, Logan. Talking points. Not whatever that was.”

“Good to hear from you too,” I said dryly, pacing along the sidewalk outside the Hellblades’ building. “Relax, Andrew. I didn’t say anything wrong.”

“You didn’t say anything right, either,” he snapped. “The whole point of that interview was to rebuild your image, not hand the reporter ammunition to dig deeper.”

I stopped walking, gripping the phone tighter. “I’m not handing her anything. You think I enjoy this? Being treated like I’m guilty when I haven’t done a damn thing wrong? And how do you even know what went on, I just left the meeting?”

Andrew sighed, the sound grating. “What I think doesn’t matter, Logan. Perception is everything. You need to stay on message, or this thing will bury you.”

The line went quiet for a beat, and I stared out at the street, watching cars pass. “Anything else?” I asked, my voice flat.

“No,” Andrew said finally. “Just… don’t screw this up, Logan. I can only clean up so much.”

The call ended with a dull beep, and I let out a slow breath. For once, I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to stop feeling like I was sinking, like every move I made only dragged me deeper.

***

The drive to my grandads house didn’t take long, just a quick thirty minutes, but it felt like crossing into another world. His neighborhood was a patchwork of modest, single-story homes, the kind with front lawns that were small but meticulously kept. Driveways held older cars, the kind that didn’t boast luxury but ran just fine with a little care. Kids’ bikes leaned against porch railings, and the occasional flag fluttered from mailboxes or doorframes.

His house sat at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, its faded blue siding blending in with the muted tones of the other homes around it. The flowerbeds under the front windows were still lined with bricks I’d helped him lay when I was a kid, though they were more dirt than flowers now. His porch light flickered faintly, casting a warm glow that softened the edges of the early evening.

As I parked in the narrow driveway, I could already see him through the front window, sitting in his favorite armchair, the one he’d had for as long as I could remember. The fabric was worn, the arms frayed where his hands rested most, but he wouldn’t part with it for anything. The TV was on low, casting flickers of light across the living room, and on the small table beside him sat his usual setup: a glass of iced tea and a dish of mixed nuts he swore helped him stay sharp.

The shift in atmosphere was immediate. No noise, no chaos, no headlines chasing me here. Just the steady hum of crickets in the yard and the faint glow of a world that felt simpler.

“Logan!” he greeted when I walked in, his face lighting up. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.”

“Thought I’d check in,” I said, shrugging out of my jacket and slinging it over the back of the couch. “How are you?”

“Better now.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve been seeing the news, you know.”

Of course he had. He was glued to the TV most days, especially during hockey season. I sat down across from him, trying to keep my expression neutral. “It’s all noise, Grandpa. Nothing worth paying attention to.”

His smile faded, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Logan, you’re a good boy. Always have been. But if there’s something to this… if you’ve gotten mixed up in something—”

“I haven’t,” I cut in, sharper than I intended. “You know me better than that.”

His shoulders relaxed, but his expression stayed serious. “I do. But the world doesn’t, and you’ve got to be careful. Don’t let them turn you into something you’re not.”

His words stuck with me as I drove home. He meant well—he always did—but the weight of his expectations pressed down on me harder than I wanted to admit. He believed in me. Trusted me. And the thought of letting him down twisted something sharp and ugly in my chest.

At home, I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the couch, staring up at the ceiling. I couldn’t shake Ava’s voice, her questions still buzzing in my head. She’d been relentless, picking at every crack, pushing in ways no one else had dared.

And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong to. Someone had set me up, and if she kept digging, she might uncover truths I wasn’t ready to face. Not about gambling, I’d never bet a cent on a game, but about the people I’d trusted. People who’d clearly thought I was expendable.

“Not tonight,” I muttered to myself, dragging a hand through my hair. I needed a break, from the scandal, from the headlines, and definitely from Ava Carlisle.

If only it were that easy.