Page 21 of Face Off
I hesitate, then reply.
Me: Define okay.
Her reply is instant.
Hannah: Define not okay.
I stare at the screen. My instinct is to brush it off, to laugh and claim everything’s fine, but the words from Sophie still scrape raw.
Me: They called me Tabloid Girl again. Out loud. Like I wasn’t even there.
Dots dance. Then I get a response.
Hannah: You knew it might happen. But still. That’s vicious.
I swallow hard. My throat aches.
Me: They’re never going to see me as anything else, are they?
Hannah: Maybe not them. But who cares? You’re not here for their approval. You’re here for your career.
Career. The word is supposed to ground me. Instead, it feels shaky.
Me: Sometimes I think maybe they’re right about me.
She sends a voice note this time, her tone firm, affectionate, but exasperated. “Chloe Miller, stop it. You’ve made mistakes, fine. Who hasn’t? But you’re not some cartoon puck bunny. You’re clever, ambitious, stubborn as hell, and you actually hate hockey. That alone should prove you’re not hanging around for a player. Don’t let their labels stick. You’re more than that.”
I close my eyes, leaning back in the plastic chair. More than that. I want to believe her.
The truth is, I did chase the wrong things once. I did flirt my way into a disaster with Murphy because it was easy, because it was attention, because I was lonely. And now I’m paying for it every day I walk into this arena and feel the daggers from people like Sophie.
But I’m also here working, showing up, writing. Fighting for a career in a sport I don’t even love. That has to count for something.
Another buzz.
Hannah: And for what it’s worth, Ollie Taylor winked at you like you were the only person in that building. Don’t think I missed it.
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Me: You watch the games just to catch me blushing, don’t you?
Hannah: Absolutely. And you’re welcome.
I laugh softly, the knot in my chest loosening just a fraction.
But when I lower my phone, the blank document on my laptop glares back. I need to file copy, not get tangled in Ollie’s smirk.
My fingers hover over the keys. I try to type about The Raptors’ penalty kill, about Murphy’s chemistry with Dylan, about Jacko’s outlandish post-game spread of cookies he handed out in the locker room. But the words twist sideways, sentences half-formed, because every thought loops back to one thing.
The wink.
The way it made me feel seen in a building where everyone else looks at me with contempt. The way it cracked through the ice of Tabloid Girl and reached something warmer underneath.
I slam the laptop shut before I do something stupid like type his name into the first sentence of my article.
Professional. I repeat it like a mantra. Professional.
But when I gather my things to leave, I catch a glimpse of him down the hall, his cap pulled low, laughing with his teammates. My stomach flips, traitorously hopeful.
