Page 27 of Face Off
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t give a damn whether Chloe Miller sees more than the cocky winger everyone else does.
But I do.
And that scares the hell out of me.
Jacko claps a hand on my shoulder as he passes, pulling me back to reality. “You good?”
I blink up at him. Force a grin. “Always.”
He raises a brow like he doesn’t believe me, then moves on.
Murphy’s still muttering in the corner, Dylan’s chirping, and I’m sitting here with a phone burning a hole in my palm, caught between two worlds I can’t let collide.
Team loyalty.
Chloe Miller.
I drag in a breath, long and slow, and shove the phone back into my bag.
I’ll see her again soon enough.
And when I do? God help me.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHLOE
The city sun feels too bright when I step out of the studio office. My heels click sharply on the pavement, the rhythm of each step echoing in my ears, but it doesn’t drown out the chatter of my own thoughts. My story’s gone live this morning, and the feedback is rolling in already, retweets, notifications, a smattering of comments from fans of the team.
Mostly positive. Sharp. Objective. Just like I’d intended.
And yet, I can’t shake the memory of Ollie’s glance from last night. That tiny wink, that mischievous grin. A single gesture, and I feel like he sees me, not “Tabloid Girl,” not my father’s pawn, but me.
I scroll through my phone, nearly dropping it when a message pops up.
Ollie: “Ten out of ten on professionalism. But that doesn’t mean I can’t notice other stuff.”
I blink. Smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Chloe: “Other stuff? Care to elaborate, or is this top-secret hockey intelligence?”
Ollie: “Depends. You buying coffee? I might have intel to share in person.”
My pulse skips. Coffee again? It’s fast, casual, but every text he sends is a little spark of something I’m trying not to fan into a flame. And yet, why do I want to?
Chloe: “Intelligence always worth sharing. Where?”
Ollie: “Corner café, 4 p.m. I’ll save you a table.”
I tuck the phone in my bag, shaking my head as I walk. Calm and switched on. That’s what I need to be. Sharp. Discreet. Objective. Not a woman distracted by a hockey player with reckless charm and too-bright eyes. God, those eyes, they’re a shade of green I’ve seen before.
But somehow, Ollie makes that rule feel impossible.
The café is warm when I step inside, aromatic with roasted beans and pastries lined like soldiers on the counter. I spot him immediately, the usual confident posture slightly off-balance, a hand on his hip as he leans against the table, stretching it just a little to ease some tension. The left side of his gait is subtle, but I notice. Always. His hip. He hides it well during games, but in the quiet of a café, the tilt of his shoulder, the slight lean, gives him away.
“Chloe.” His grin lights up the space. Even with the slight wince as he shifts his weight, he’s magnetic.
“Taylor,” I say, sliding into the seat opposite him, trying to keep my tone even.
