Page 5

Five

Logan

M y phone buzzed on the counter for the third time in two minutes. I ignored it again, finishing the last bite of the sandwich I’d slapped together after getting back from grandad’s. It didn’t matter. I already knew who it was. Sure enough, the moment I set the plate down, the buzzing started again. With a sigh, I grabbed the phone and answered.

“What now, Andrew?” I said, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

“Well, hello to you too,” he shot back. “Nice to know my top client still has impeccable manners.”

I leaned against the counter, closing my eyes. “Is this going to be another lecture, or do you have something useful to say?”

“Both,” he said without missing a beat. “Because you’re screwing yourself, Logan. That interview? A disaster. She baited you, and you walked right into it. Again.”

“She didn’t bait me,” I snapped. “She asked the preapproved questions. That’s her job.”

“Her job is to get headlines, not hold your hand,” he said sharply. “And you’re giving her all the ammo she needs to keep this story alive. You need to change the narrative. Now.”

I didn’t respond. What was there to say? He wasn’t wrong, but it didn’t mean I wanted to hear it.

Andrew’s voice softened slightly, a rare occurrence. “Look, you know I’m in your corner. But this isn’t just about clearing your name, it’s about keeping your career intact. Sponsors don’t stick around for scandals. You’ve got to give the media something else to chew on.”

“Like what?” I asked, already regretting it.

There was a beat of silence before he said, “A girlfriend.”

I barked out a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not,” he said firmly. “Think about it. A steady, respectable relationship? Someone who makes you look grounded, relatable. The media will eat it up, and the scandal fades into the background.”

“I’m not faking a relationship,” I said, shaking my head. “This isn’t Hollywood.”

“Logan, this is about perception,” Andrew said, his tone turning hard again. “It’s not about what’s real—it’s about what works. If you don’t want to listen to me, fine. But don’t come crying to me when your endorsements vanish.”

“Anything else?” I asked, already done with this conversation.

“Yeah,” he said, his tone clipped. “You can fix this now. Or we are done.” The line went dead, and I tossed the phone onto the counter.

It wasn’t long before I was picking it up again, though. My thoughts had been spinning ever since Ava walked into that interview room. She was relentless, sharp as hell, and not afraid to call me out. I hated it—and I kind of respected it, too.

I pulled up Jaymie’s contact and hit call.

“What’s up, Bennett?” he answered, his voice lazy. “Don’t tell me you’re bored already.”

“Need a favor,” I said. “You still know that guy at the Chicago Daily Times ?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I need Ava Carlisle’s number.”

There was a pause, followed by a low whistle. “Ava Carlisle? The reporter from the bar, that wouldn't give you the time of day? You’ve got a thing for punishment now, or what?”

“Just get me the number,” I said, ignoring his tone.

Jaymie chuckled. “Whatever you say. Sending it now.”

Ten minutes later, I was staring at her contact in my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button. What the hell was I doing? I wasn’t even sure. All I knew was that Andrew’s voice was still ringing in my head, and for some reason, I couldn’t shake the idea that Ava might be the solution. Just maybe not the one Andrew meant.

She was certainly someone who could shift the focus, she's stunning if anything. I could offer her exclusive bites, play nice, and steer the narrative in a way that worked for both of us. She wanted a story? Fine. She’d get one. And maybe, just maybe, she’d help me clean up the mess I’d been drowning in.

I pressed the button before I could talk myself out of it.

Ava

The phone buzzed on my desk, jolting me out of my focus. I frowned at the screen, an unknown number flashing across it. Great, probably another PR rep calling to tell me what I could and couldn’t write. Still, I couldn’t afford to ignore calls these days. Not when I needed every lead, every quote, every crumb of a story I could get my hands on. My finger hesitated over the answer button for half a second before I sighed and picked up.

“This is Ava Carlisle.”

“Carlisle, it’s Logan Bennett.”

His voice was unmistakable, low, smooth, and laced with just enough smugness to make my teeth clench. I straightened in my chair, my pulse ticking up a notch. Why does every male on the planet believe in calling someone by their last name? As if first names never existed.

“Bennett. To what do I owe the honor?”

He chuckled softly, and I hated that it sounded... nice. “Look, I’ve been thinking about our interview.”

“Oh? Decided to give me real answers this time, instead of your garbled nonsense of drunk and disorderly?”

There was a beat of silence before he replied, “Maybe. I wasn’t exactly... at my best. Bristly, I guess you’d call it. I’d like to make it up to you.”

I leaned back, my pen tapping lightly against the edge of my notebook.

“Make it up to me? I didn’t realize hockey players were in the habit of second chances.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he said, his tone carrying a thread of humor. “What do you say? One more interview. Just you and me, no PR handlers breathing down our necks.”

I should have said no. I should have told him I already had what I needed. But the truth was, I didn’t. Not really. The story I had so far wasn’t enough, not enough to land me the byline I needed, the one that could finally get my career out of neutral. And now Logan Bennett was practically handing me a lifeline. Exclusive access to the Hellblades’ golden boy? If I played this right, it could be my big break. The kind that didn’t just get you a story but a reputation.

“What’s the catch?” I asked finally.

“No catch,” he said, though the way he said it made me think there probably was one. “Just think of it as a chance to hear and see my side without the noise.”

“Okay,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “But I have conditions. I want the truth, Bennett. No dodging, no deflecting. If I’m giving you another chance, I expect answers.”

“You’ll get answers,” he said, his voice carrying that same smooth confidence that had probably charmed a thousand reporters before me.

“When are you free?”

I glanced around the bullpen, the hum of my coworkers typing and talking blending into the usual chaos of the newsroom. My office wasn’t an option—I didn’t even have one. But the coffee shop downstairs was quiet enough, and it wouldn’t look suspicious if anyone saw us.

“Tomorrow morning. Ten a.m. The coffee shop downstairs from the Chicago Daily Times.”

“Coffee, huh? Thought you’d go for something stronger,” he said, amusement lacing his tone.

“Trust me, Bennett, you’re not worth a drink at ten in the morning.”

He laughed, a deep, rich sound that made my stomach twist for reasons I didn’t like. “Fair enough. I’ll be there.”

The call ended, and I stared at my phone for a long moment, the screen now dark and quiet. My mind buzzed with possibilities, weighing the risk against the potential reward. Logan Bennett wasn’t someone you trusted easily, but he was someone who could change everything if I played this right.

For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to hope. Maybe, just maybe, I could pull this off.