Page 17 of Face Off
“Well, well, if it isn’t the North’s most notorious puck bunny,” she drawls.
“Lovely to see you too,” I deadpan, sinking back into the sofa.
“Don’t ‘lovely to see you’ me, Chloe Miller. What are you up to? Because I swear, I saw a photo on some Raptors fan account that looked suspiciously like you walking out of Bean & Brew this morning with a certain winger.”
My stomach drops. “Already?”
“Sweetheart, these fans could sniff out a scandal in a hurricane. So? Spill. Was it coffee, or was itcoffee?” She wiggles her brows, peeling at the edge of her face mask.
I groan, covering my face with a cushion. “It was just coffee.”
“Uh-huh. And I just wear this gunk because I like scaring the neighbours.”
“Han, I mean it. It wasn’t a date. He invited me, and I went, but it was more like research. Professional.”
She snorts. “Right. Because professional research usually includes the way you’re biting your lip just saying his name.”
I drop the cushion, glaring. “Do you want the truth, or do you want to mock me?”
Her expression softens a little. “Truth.”
I exhale slowly. “I know what people think of me. I know what Murphy’s girlfriend thinks. And she’s not wrong about the past. I did chase the wrong things. I liked the idea of hockey players more than I liked hockey. I thought being close to them gave me some kind of power? Edge? I don’t know. But that’s not me anymore.”
Hannah tilts her head. “And Ollie?”
I hesitate, fingers knotting in the fringe of the sofa throw. “Ollie’s different. He’s infuriating. Cocky. Always two seconds from a smirk. But he listens. Like, really listens. And when I talk, he doesn’t brush me off like I’m decoration in the locker room. It feels like…”
“Like he sees you?” Hannah supplies.
“Yeah.” My voice is quiet. “And that’s terrifying. Because I can’t afford to be that girl again. The one chasing a headline through someone’s bed sheets.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Then maybe don’t be. Maybe let yourself just be Chloe. Not Chloe the journalist. Not Chloe the puck bunny. Just you.”
My throat tightens. “And if I screw it up?”
“Then at least it’s your screw-up, love. Not theirs.”
I smile, small but genuine. “You always know how to make me feel like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer.”
“It’s a gift.” She peels off her face mask, wincing. “Christ, that burns. Anyway, got to rinse. Don’t let Mr. Winger distract you from filing copy, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I lie, and hang up.
Silence fills the flat again. I stare at the cursor blinking on my document. My fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to type something that isn’t his name.
But of course, the next line I write is:
Taylor skates like he’s got a secret.
And maybe he does.
By mid-afternoon, I’m restless. The words aren’t coming, the walls feel too tight, and Ollie’s grin keeps flashing in my head like a neon sign. Against my better judgment, I head back to the rink earlier than I need to.
The place is quieter now, the morning’s chaos simmered down. A few players linger, stretching or icing injuries, trainers bustling around. And then, across the ice, I spot him.
Ollie.
Stick in hand, skating lazy circles, sweat darkening his T-shirt. He looks up, and our eyes catch. The grin spreads instantly and I feel my pulse trip.
