Page 14 of Face Off
“Good,” he says, leaning just enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “Learning is important. Even for pros like you.”
I roll my eyes playfully, heart still hammering. “I’m a fast learner.”
He smirks. “I think I might have noticed.”
There’s a pause, a small, charged moment where the air between us seems almost electric. I want to linger, want to ask him to join me for that coffee we talked about. I want to see if this spark is real or purely my imagination. But the moment stretches just long enough that I feel the weight of reality pressing back in.
Dylan’s voice cuts through, calling the team together. Murphy and Jacko skate past, oblivious. And Ollie steps back, just enough to break the tension, though that sly smile lingers.
I tuck my notebook under my arm again, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Coffee later?” I ask, testing the waters, my voice steady, even though my chest feels like it’s doing somersaults.
He grins, leaning close enough for a whisper. “Definitely. I’ll hold you to it.”
As the rest of the team gathers around Dylan for the post-training debrief, I watch him, Ollie, blend back into the chaos, still magnetic, still impossibly charming, still making me feel things I shouldn’t. Things I can’t name yet.
And I realise, with a thrill I’m trying not to acknowledge, that this is just the beginning.
The slow burn, the teasing, the careful game of proximity and distance, it’s all starting. And I’m not sure if I’m ready for the fire it promises, but I know I can’t stop myself from leaning into it.
Because Ollie is a problem.
A delicious, infuriating, irresistible problem.
CHAPTER SEVEN
OLLIE
There are a million reasons why meeting Chloe for coffee is a bad idea.
For starters, she’s technically “with” the team, shadowing us, taking notes, reporting, whatever title you want to give it. Getting too close? It’s complicated and risky. Potentially catastrophic if Murphy or Dylan catch a whiff of something more than casual between us.
Then there’s the obvious problem; she’s off-limits. The unspoken code among the guys is not to cross wires with anyone who might complicate the locker room. And Chloe is complication personified. Sharp eyes, sharper tongue, a laugh that sneaks under my skin, and a smile that has no business being aimed in my direction.
So yeah. Bad idea.
But here I am anyway, sitting at a corner table of Bean & Brew, fidgeting with a sugar packet and waiting for her to walk through the door.
The bell above the entrance jingles, and I glance up. My chest tightens like someone’s yanked a skate lace too tight.
Chloe.
She’s got her hair tied back, a scarf looped around her neck, notebook peeking out of her bag. Casual and effortless. Like she didn’t spend all morning embedded with a bunch of sweaty, foul-mouthed hockey players. And yet, somehow, she walks in like she belongs here more than any of us.
Her eyes find mine almost instantly. A flicker of hesitation, then that grin, small, crooked, like she knows exactly how much trouble she’s causing just by existing.
“You’re early,” she says as she slides into the chair opposite me.
“You’re late,” I counter, smirking.
She glances at the clock on the wall. “By two minutes.”
“Two minutes is an eternity in hockey.”
Her laugh is soft but genuine, and something in my chest loosens. I want to bottle that sound, keep it for the days when training feels like dragging my body through hell.
The barista comes by, and Chloe orders a latte, while I stick with my black coffee. Simple. Bitter. Safe.
“So,” she says, leaning back in her chair, eyes sharp. “Am I supposed to be interviewing you right now, or is this purely recreational?”
