Page 101 of Face Off
He’s quieter than usual, his breath steady but his eyes restless as they flick toward the ceiling.
“You don’t buy it, do you?” he says finally.
“Buy what?” I tilt my head, brushing a strand of hair out of his face.
“Murphy. This shift towards him being nice. He hasn’t had a go at you in a week. He even told the guys I’ve been grafting in rehab.” His mouth twists like he doesn’t know how to shape the words. “Feels wrong. Like waiting for the punchline.”
I trace a slow circle on his chest with my finger, right over the steady thump of his heart. “Maybe it’s not a punchline. Maybeit’s just growth. Or Sophie kicking him under the table until he gets the message.”
He huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not sure I can trust it.”
“Then don’t.” My voice is soft but steady. “You don’t need to trust Murphy. You just need to trust yourself. And your team. The rest, it’s background noise.”
His gaze finally drops to mine, heavy and searching. “You really think the team still believes in me?”
“I don’t think. I know.” I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the strength that’s still there, the stubborn heartbeat that refuses to quit. “You’re more than your hip. More than Murphy’s opinion. You’re Ollie fucking Taylor. And that’s enough.”
The silence stretches, warm and intimate. Then he takes my hand in his, threading our fingers together, holding tight like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
He shifts beside me, restless, like the weight of something unsaid is pressing on his chest.
“It’s not the whispers I worry about anymore,” he says quietly. “It’s the future. My contract. If they decide I’m done, what am I then?”
The words hang heavy between us.
I tighten my grip on his hand. “You’re still you. Still Ollie. Still the man who fights harder than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“That won’t pay the bills,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is thin, cracked.
“No,” I agree softly, “but it’s what makes people believe in you. It’s what makes me believe in you. And if The Raptors can’t see that, then they don’t deserve you.”
He lets out a shaky breath, eyes closing, forehead pressing to mine. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple,” I whisper. “But it’s true.”
Something in him softens then, a crack in the armour he wears so tightly. He pulls me closer, tucking me against his chest, and I feel the tension seep out of him in slow waves.
We lie there like that, hands clasped, bodies pressed together, until the weight of the day finally pulls us under.
I fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body anchoring me against the cold certainty of my father’s looming shadow.
For now, that’s enough.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
OLLIE
The sound of blades on ice is sharp, clean, and almost musical when you’ve been off it too long. Mia surprised me this morning and cleared me for light ice time. I push forward, slow and deliberate, focusing on every line of my stride. The weight transfer. The bend in my knees. The way the pressure pulls tight through my hip but doesn’t stab, not like before. Light drills only, no contact, just the freedom of moving again.
Jonno skates the length of the boards, watching me with his hawk eyes. “Good. Keep it smooth. No jolts.”
“I’m trying,” I mutter through clenched teeth, but it comes out steadier than I feel.
Coach leans on the rail, arms folded, face unreadable. He’s said barely a word since I stepped on. I push through another circuit, weaving shallow turns, focusing on rhythm. My lungs burn, but in a way that feels alive, not broken.
When Jonno finally blows the whistle, I coast to a stop, sweat trickling down my spine. My hip’s nagging, but it’s controlled. No sharp collapse. No white-hot agony. I’ll take it.
Coach waves me over.
