Page 16 of Face Off
She smirks as she gathers her things. “Especially when one of my subjects keeps distracting me.”
I stand as she does, resisting the urge to reach out, to touch her arm, to keep her here a little longer. Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and settle for walking her to the door.
Outside, the air is crisp, tinged with the smell of roasted beans and city traffic. She turns to me, eyes bright, smile tugging at her lips.
“Thanks for the coffee,” she says.
“Anytime.” My voice comes out lower than I intend.
For a moment, neither of us moves. The air between us feels electric again, charged with something unspoken. Then she steps back, breaking the spell.
“See you at training,” she says, and before I can reply, she’s walking away, scarf fluttering in the breeze.
I watch until she disappears around the corner, my chest tight, my head a mess.
Because I know I should walk away from this. Keep it professional. Respect the team, respect the code.
But I also know I won’t.
Not when Chloe looks at me like that. Not when she makes me feel like I’m more than just Ollie the player, Ollie the teammate, Ollie the joker.
She sees me.
And I’m in trouble.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHLOE
By the time I get back to my flat, my laptop is already glaring at me from the table like a judgmental ex. Its lid slightly cracked open, screen dark, daring me to try again. My notebook is there too, half-full of scribbles from the rink this morning. Observations. Quotes. The things I’m supposed to be shaping into something coherent.
Instead, I toss my bag down, kick off my boots, and flop onto the sofa with a groan.
I should be writing. Murphy’s already suspicious of me just breathing the same air as his precious Raptors, and if I hand in fluff instead of sharp analysis, this whole assignment will go up in smoke. And if it goes up in smoke, my dad, my mysterious, deep-pocketed, ridiculously controlling dad, will make sure it’s not just my career that burns.
But all I can think about is Ollie.
The way he leaned across that café table, like every word I said mattered. The way his grin came easy, but his eyes stayed sharp, curious, almost hungry.
God help me.
I pull my laptop closer, open the screen, and try to focus. My notes are full of half-formed sentences:Jacko penalty minutes, Murphy leadership presence, Dylan disciplined, Ollie.
Yeah. About that.
The page is littered with his name. My pen must have been drunk.
I rub my temples. Professional, Chloe. That’s the whole point. You’re not here to fall for another hockey player. Not again.
The memory of Sophie’s face flashes in my mind, her fury when she found out I’d tried to foolishly steal Murphy away from her, how she dressed me down in front of half the team, her hand curling possessively around his arm like I’d been a disease she needed to scrub off him. The way I floundered around on centre ice like a fish out of water. The humiliation still lingers, hot and raw.
And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.
Ihadbeen chasing the wrong things. A headline. A rush. That stupid thrill of knowing a man like Murphy had looked at me, just for a night. To think I was stupid enough to ever imagine Murphy would choose me over Sophie. It was a year ago now, and I’ve changed. I’m no longer out to bag myself a star hockey-playing husband.
I can’t go back to that girl. I won’t.
My phone buzzes on the table, breaking me out of the spiral. It’s Hannah, my oldest friend, the one person who always tells me the truth, even when it’s brutal. I swipe to answer, a video popping up with her lounging in bed, face mask smeared on like she’s auditioning for a horror film. Or a remake of Mrs Doubtfire.
