Page 104 of Face Off
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHLOE
The weeks after Murphy and Sophie’s engagement party slip by in a blur of rink time, rehab sessions, and late nights at Ollie’s flat or at mine. Something shifted that night, subtle, but I can feel it. The tension in the locker room isn’t gone, not completely, but it’s softer around the edges. Murphy still can’t help a sarcastic jab here and there, but it’s tempered, almost self-aware. The rookies don’t laugh as hard anymore. Sometimes they don’t laugh at all.
For the first time since I walked into this job, I don’t feel like I’m stealing space that isn’t mine.
Most evenings, Ollie and I collapse onto his sofa, him with ice strapped to his hip, me with my laptop balanced on my knees. My draft has swollen into something bigger than I imagined at the start, more than stats and game reports. It’s the story of resilience, of what it costs to fight your way back into something you love. And now, with the season creeping toward its close, I’m almost ready to hand it in.
The cursor blinks on the final line, daring me to admit it’s finished. Almost. I tell myself one more pass, one more round ofedits, one more week to make sure I’ve done justice to the story, to the team and to him.
Ollie sometimes teases me about how many sticky notes I’ve plastered around his living room.You’re nesting,he says, mock-accusing, while he makes tea strong enough to strip paint. But when he thinks I’m not looking, he reads the pages over my shoulder, jaw set, eyes soft.
I try not to think too much about my father. His silence has been unnerving, but I cling to the fragile hope that when he reads what I’ve written, when he sees how careful, how balanced, how honest it is, he’ll approve. And maybe then, when the season ends, I can move on cleanly. Close this chapter, start a new one. On my terms.
But hope is dangerous. And I know better than anyone that my father doesn’t always play fair.
Which is why, tonight, standing in the glittering hall of the Raptors’ sponsor gala, with Ollie across the room in his sharp suit and Sophie muttering sharp one-liners at my side, I tell myself it’s just one more night of playing the part. Smile. Take notes. Stay invisible. Keep it all under control.
The gala is the sort of event that makes me want to disappear into the wallpaper, because the memory of Murphy-gate still lives large in my head. Shiny glassware, too much champagne, women in glittering dresses that look like they cost more than my rent. I stand near the edge of the room with Sophie, both of us nursing orange juice because neither of us feels like playing the part of “cheerful plus-one” tonight.
“Don’t look now,” Sophie mutters, eyes glinting, “but Murphy’s trying to charm the CEO of an energy drink company. He’s about one sentence away from agreeing to name our next child after their latest flavour.”
I snort into my glass. “Tropical Blast Murphy. Has a ring to it.”
She smirks. “Better than Sour Grape.”
For a blissful five minutes, I let her sarcasm shield me. I can see Ollie across the room, shoulders broad in his suit jacket, listening politely as two sponsors quiz him about recovery timelines. He looks steady. Confident, even. I’m proud of him, incredibly proud.
And then I hear it.
“…Miller money. Didn’t realise his girl wasthatMiller. Guess that explains the gig shadowing the team.”
The words carry, tossed casually between two staff members near the buffet table. My blood runs cold.
Ollie’s head snaps up. Not surprise, because he’s known for a while, but the flash of protectiveness is instant, the muscle in his jaw ticking as his eyes lock on mine. He excuses himself from the sponsors mid-sentence, striding across the room, voice pitched low but firm.
“Chlo. You don’t have to let them spin this.”
Too late. The whispers spread faster than spilled champagne. Jacko’s brows knit as he looks from me to Ollie. Murphy’s mouth actually drops open for once.
Sophie’s face goes sharp. “Well. Shit.”
I square my shoulders, pulse hammering. If this is going to explode, I’d rather set the charge myself.
“Yes,” I say, louder than I intend, so everyone can hear. My hands are trembling but my voice doesn’t waver. “My father is Charles Miller. One of the main investors in the team.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Jonno whistles under his breath. “Bloody hell.”
A rookie mutters something about nepotism, and Murphy of all people snaps, “Shut it. She’s put in more hours than half of you clowns.”
That shocks me almost as much as the reveal.
Still, the questions come.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dylan asks, not cruelly, just confused.
