Page 13 of Face Off
There’s a beat. A beat that stretches a second too long and makes the air around him feel warmer than it should.
“You survived yesterday,” he says, leaning closer.
I lift an eyebrow. “Just about.”
He grins. “It’s a start.”
I shake my head, feeling heat creep up my neck. How is it that someone I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours can make me feel simultaneously flustered and entirely at ease?
Training begins, and I move to the sidelines, notebook poised. I’m supposed to focus on the drills, on player interactions, on the subtle dynamics that make a team click or implode. And I try. I really do. But every time Ollie glides past the bench, every time he’s near the boards with his grin a little too confident, I find myself writing fewer notes and observing more.
It’s the way he moves, precise and effortless, yet always with a hint of playfulness. The way he interacts with the team, giving instructions quietly, teasing here and there, he’s not just a player. He’s someone who notices details, someone who reads people without making it obvious. And I can feel the attention on me, even though he’s careful. Even though it’s subtle.
At the first water break, I take the chance to step closer to the boards. He’s leaning against the glass again, as if he’s been waiting for me.
“You’re unusually cheerful for someone who just spent twenty minutes running drills,” I tease, trying to keep my voice light and professional.
He raises an eyebrow. “Cheerful? That’s generous. I’m surviving. That counts as cheerful, right?”
I bite back a laugh, jotting a quick note in my book. “Surviving… check.”
He leans closer, voice just above a whisper, teasing, casual. “Don’t let Murphy hear you calling it ‘surviving.’ He might take it personally.”
I glance at him, pretending to jot another note. “I’ll risk it. Besides, I’m observing, not insulting.”
“Observing is dangerous,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Especially when the subject notices.”
I feel my cheeks heat and look down at my notes, trying to regain some semblance of control. It’s laughable. He’s charming, magnetic, impossible to ignore, and I’m a professional. I should be analysing the team, not wondering what his lips would look like if he smiled without teasing.
The drills resume. I hover at the edge, pen poised, eyes darting between Ollie and the other players. I know it’s obvious, I can feel his eyes on me, can see the little shifts in his posture when our gazes meet. It’s electric, subtle but undeniable, and I can’t quite reconcile my role as the observer with my growing fascination.
At one point, Murphy barks orders across the ice, Dylan grumbles something under his breath, and Jacko shouts a correction. Ollie glances in my direction, just long enough for me to feel the weight of his attention. I bite my lip, pretending to make a note, pretending my racing heart is purely professional curiosity.
During the next break, he slides over to me, leaning on the glass with that casual ease that makes my chest ache.
“You’re taking notes like a pro,” he says. “Or maybe you’re sketching escape routes. Hard to tell.”
I tilt my head, pen hovering above the page. “Maybe a little of both. Depends how dramatic the day gets.”
He grins, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m hoping for drama. Makes life more interesting. Maybe a little excitement for the observer, too.”
My stomach flips. “Excitement?”
“Yes,” he says, leaning a little closer, his voice low. “You know, the kind you only get when someone keeps breaking your concentration.”
I feel my lips twitch, a smile forming despite my best efforts to remain composed. “And you do that often?”
“Only when it’s unavoidable,” he says, smirking, eyes flicking briefly to the other players. “Mostly unavoidable, in your case.”
I glance at him, heart rate accelerating. There’s a playfulness here, a confidence, a challenge, and I realise I want to meet it. Want to play along, even if it’s dangerous. Even if it’s foolish.
As the morning stretches on, we trade these quiet, teasing exchanges. Nothing overt. Nothing scandalous. But every glance, every carefully measured word, feels charged. I know the team doesn’t notice, or if they do, they don’t comment. Ollie has a way of masking the attention he gives me, a careful balance of mischief and discretion.
During the final set of drills, I notice him skidding to a stop near the boards, giving a quick tip to Dylan, then shooting me a glance that’s just long enough for my stomach to twist. I pretend to jot another note, but I’m watching him more than the paper. His laughter at a minor blunder, the way he ruffles his hair absentmindedly, the slight tilt of his shoulders, it’s magnetic.
And then, just as the session ends, he skates over to me. His grin is wide, and effortless. “Well, observer,” he says, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Survived the morning?”
I laugh softly, closing my notebook. “Barely,” I admit, recalling our first exchange. “But I think I’ve learned a lot.”
