Page 19 of Face Off
“Mine isn’t mine.” I flash him a grin before he can push. Deflection is an art.
Murphy narrows his eyes, suspicious, then glances back toward the glass. His jaw tightens.
Because there she is. Not Sophie. Chloe.
She’s leaning against the rail near the penalty box, hair falling in loose waves, pen tapping her notebook like she’s plotting a heist. And when her gaze flicks up and collides with mine, it’s like a spark catches under my skin.
Dangerous.
I drain the rest of the water, toss the cup. “See you on the ice.”
Second period, the game gets nasty. Opponents crashing hard, sticks clattering, tension spiking. The kind of hockey that makes your blood sing.
And of course, it’s during a scrum near the boards that I catch sight of her again. Chloe. She’s right there at rink side, pressed against the glass, scribbling like a woman possessed. When one of their defensemen slams me, shoulder-first, into the boards, I hear her intake of breath even through the roar of the crowd.
It shouldn’t matter. But hell, it does.
I push harder. Faster.
By the next whistle, I’m sucking air, chest heaving, skating back to the bench. Murphy slumps down beside me, sweat dripping, eyes darting between Sophie and Chloe like they’re landmines.
“They hate her, you know,” he mutters under his breath, nodding toward Chloe without really looking. “Sophie and Mia. Won’t even say her name. Just ‘Tabloid Girl.’”
I shrug, eyes tracking Chloe as she writes. “Could be worse nicknames.”
“She almost ruined my life, Ollie. Don’t you remember helping me get Soph back? The signs you and Jacko made begging for forgiveness?” His voice cracks with something sharp, raw.
I don’t answer right away. Because yeah, I know what she did. I know the headlines, the fallout. But I also know the way Chloe laughs when she’s trying not to. The way her eyes flash when she challenges me. The way she makes me forget, just for a second, that my career’s a ticking clock.
Finally, I say quietly, “Maybe people can be more than their worst mistake.”
Murphy turns to me, stunned. “You like her.”
I grin, too fast, too sharp. “I like winning hockey games. And right now, you stressing about Tabloid Girl isn’t helping us do that.”
His glare could cut steel, but the whistle blows, saving me.
Third period. And it’s a tight game. The kind that squeezes every ounce out of you.
I block a shot, hip screaming and feeling like it might give out on me any minute now, but thankfully it doesn’t. I feed Dylan a goal, who snipes one top corner. Crowd goes insane. The Raptors bench explodes.
And when I look to the glass she’s there. Chloe’s on her feet, notebook forgotten, clapping before she catches herself, cheeks flushing.
That spark ignites again, hot and bright and impossible to ignore.
She’s supposed to be off-limits. She’s supposed to be nothing but trouble.
So why the hell does it feel like she’s already mine?
Postgame is chaos. Reporters crowding, fans shouting, gear stinking up the room. Jacko’s banana bread vanishes in about two minutes flat, crumbs everywhere. Dylan’s chirping me about my hair, Murphy’s glued to Sophie and Finn like he’s got something to prove. And Chloe?
Chloe is leaning in the doorway, press badge swinging, eyes locked on me.
I wink before I can stop myself.
And the way her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile?
Yeah. I’m in trouble.
