Page 12 of Face Off
“Obvious? Let’s just say it’s impressive.” I grin. “I’d be flattered if I were one of the subjects.”
Her pen pauses. She finally looks at me, eyes sparkling, and for a split second, the world outside the rink disappears. “Subjects… huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging like it’s casual. “You know. Profiles, observations, patterns. The whole detective-journalist vibe. You’re very methodical.”
Her lips twitch. “I try.”
“You succeed,” I whisper, just low enough for her to catch it without anyone else noticing.
She flushes, ever so slightly, and I nearly grin too wide. I skate away before I get too bold, forcing my focus back to the drills. But my chest feels lighter, like a weight I didn’t know I was carrying has shifted a fraction.
The morning stretches on. Every break, every pause, every glance exchanged across the rink feels like a game within the game. I’m careful, too careful sometimes, and other times I letmy words brush a little too close to teasing, to flirtation, just enough to keep her guessing.
By the time the session winds down, sweat soaking my jersey and ice nipping at my cheeks, Chloe is still perched by the boards, notebook clutched like armour. I skate up beside her, leaning casually on the glass.
“You survived,” I say, voice teasing but warm.
“I did,” she replies, eyes glinting. “Barely.”
I laugh. “Barely counts. Barely is a start.”
She smirks. “You’re full of encouraging words this morning.”
“Only for the brave,” I say, letting my gaze linger on her a beat longer than I should. “And maybe for the curious.”
She laughs softly, a sound that makes something in my chest loosen, something that I’d spent years holding tight. And for a second, I wonder what it would be like if the team weren’t here, if the rink were empty, if we could just talk without glances over shoulders or the weight of unspoken rules.
But then Murphy calls for the final wrap-up, Dylan grumbles, and Jacko nods in his silent, approving way. Reality crashes back in, but I can’t shake the look Chloe gives me before she heads toward the locker room, brief, loaded, a promise of something unspoken.
I lean against the glass, watching her go. And I know that this, whatever it is, whatever we’re building quietly, carefully, is only going to get harder.
Because I’m loyal to the team. Loyal to my friends. Loyal to the code that says I don’t let distractions get in the way.
And Chloe is exactly the kind of distraction I should never let in.
Yet I can’t stop thinking about her.
CHAPTER SIX
CHLOE
The rink smells like burnt rubber and frozen air, sharp and electric, a scent that makes my pulse tick up. Somehow, after yesterday’s flurry of introductions and first impressions, today feels different.
I glance around, notebook tucked under my arm like a shield, scanning the players who are stretching or warming up. I know most of them by sight, but it’s the way they move that gives them away, the precision, the confidence, the unspoken rhythms of a team that’s been together too long to bother with introductions.
And then I notice him.
Ollie.
He’s leaning casually against the glass, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the rink as if he owns it, or at least has full permission to navigate every inch without interruption. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or the drills, but I feel that inexplicable tug in my chest. The one that makes me suddenly hyper-aware of the notebook in my hands, the pen I’m twisting, the way I’m breathing.
He sees me glance and smiles. It’s a subtle flicker, but it’s enough to make my stomach flip.
I clear my throat, trying to look professional, to remind myself why I’m here. Reporting. Observing. Keeping notes. Not getting distracted. But the second I look back at him, leaning just a little too easily against the cold glass, I realise I don’t want to look away.
“Morning,” he says, voice casual, teasing, and it’s impossible not to grin.
“Morning,” I reply, tucking my notebook under my arm like it could protect me from whatever this is between us.
