Page 20 of Face Off
CHAPTER TEN
CHLOE
The rink still hums with the aftershocks of victory. Cheers, claps, and the scraping of skates on concrete echo down the tunnel as I edge toward the press area. My notebook is open in my hand, but I haven’t written a thing since the final buzzer. Not one line of analysis, no sharp observation about line changes or power plays. Just a blank page and a half-smudged doodle of a skate blade where I’d been absentmindedly dragging my pen.
Because instead of paying attention to the third period, I’d been watching Ollie Taylor skate like the ice belonged to him. And instead of focusing when The Raptors scored, my ears caught Sophie’s voice a few rows back, sugar-sweet and cutting at the same time.
“Tabloid Girl’s here.”
It wasn’t even whispered. Mia had snorted right after. My cheeks had burned so hot they could have melted the ice.
Tabloid Girl.
I keep hearing it, even now.
It’s not inaccurate. My byline’s been splashed across enough gossip columns to deserve the nickname. The girl who messed with Samuel Murphy and then wrote around the edges of it untilSophie demolished me in front of half the city. The girl who, for better or worse, became shorthand for every puck bunny cliché The Raptors hate.
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste metal. Professional. I need to be professional.
“Miller.”
A voice cuts through my spiral. Not Ollie’s. One of the PR guys waves me forward toward the mixed-zone barrier where players filter through to answer questions. My stomach jolts as I spot him immediately, laughing at something Jacko says while tugging off his beanie. Hair a mess, cheeks still pink from exertion.
And then, the wink.
Fast, sly, aimed like an arrow straight through the crowd and into me.
My grip tightens on my pen.
I should hate it. I should hate him for knowing exactly how to throw me off balance. But the truth is, that wink lands in the hollow of my ribs and makes it impossible to breathe properly.
I’m not a schoolgirl. I’m not here to swoon because Ollie Taylor decided to turn his charm my way. I’m a journalist, and I’m trying to stay professional, and this time I won’t give The Raptors more reason to despise me.
Still, my notes remain stubbornly blank as he strides toward me.
“Chloe Miller,” he says smoothly, drawing the attention of two other reporters. “Thought you’d be halfway to filing already.”
I flip a page in my notebook to hide the empty space. “Some of us prefer accuracy to speed.”
He leans on the barrier, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “Accuracy, huh? So, if I asked what you thought of my second assist, you’d give me a proper glowing review?”
I arch a brow. “Maybe I’d mention how your defensive coverage was lacking on the shift before that.”
His grin could light the whole arena. “Ah, so you were watching.”
Too closely. Always too closely.
I clear my throat and force my pen across the page, scribbling nonsense just to look busy. Keep it together, Chloe.
The other reporters jostle for quotes, and Ollie slides into answering them with practiced ease. He talks about the team, about Murphy’s goal, about Dylan’s gritty work along the boards. Not a single word about himself. I jot down half-coherent phrases, though I barely hear them.
Because Sophie’s voice is still there in the back of my mind. Tabloid Girl. Because Mia’s contempt still prickles my skin like frostbite. Because Ollie’s laugh keeps tangling up with all of it, making me feel unsteady.
When he finally moves along, I breathe a little easier. My hand is cramped from gripping the pen too hard.
I retreat to the media lounge, desperate for a table, a coffee, and a second to reset. I’ve barely opened my laptop before my phone buzzes. A text from Hannah, my best friend back home.
Hannah: Saw you on the broadcast. Front row. Looking very serious. You okay?
