Page 28 of Face Off
He raises a brow, mock-offended. “Just Taylor? No Ollie?”
“Professional Chloe,” I reply smoothly. “Can’t be too familiar.”
His lips twitch in amusement. “Fair. Professional Chloe. But you’re still the same one who winked at the pen in my hand yesterday, right?”
I flush slightly, laughing despite myself. “That was observation.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, pretending to jot notes in the air, like he’s a journalist interrogating me. “Observation. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest betrays me. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And I can’t stop letting him.
We order coffees. I take a small sip, the heat settling in my hands. Ollie does the same, wincing slightly as he shifts his weight again.
“You’re favouring it,” I point out, tilting my head. “Left hip?”
He freezes for a heartbeat, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to notice. Then he grins, the mask sliding back into place. “Justa an old injury. Nothing major. Just a little reminder that I’m not invincible.”
I study him, curiosity sharp. There’s a vulnerability in that tiny admission, fleeting but real. “Does it bother you during games?”
“Sometimes,” he says, voice low. “But you know, you learn to work around it. Nobody wants to hear about it anyway. Couldn’t let the guys see weakness.”
I nod, understanding. Loyalty. Team first. Always. It explains so much about him, why he covers for Murphy, why he baits Dylan, why he jokes constantly even when he’s clearly uncomfortable.
I take another sip of my coffee, letting the quiet between us stretch just long enough that it’s comfortable, not awkward.
“Do you… ever worry?” I ask carefully, testing the water. “About the contract? About whether they’ll renew you if the hip’s a problem?”
His jaw tightens, and I see the flicker of something he immediately bottles up; fear, frustration, self-doubt. He shakes his head, forcing a grin. “Nah. Not me. I’m fine. Totally fine. Just looking forward to the season, like everyone else.”
I can read him too well. But I let it slide, letting the conversation hover on lighter territory.
“You’re terrible at hiding things,” I tease, sipping again.
He laughs, low and warm, and I feel it more than I should. “Maybe you’re too good at noticing.”
The flirtation is a subtle, slow burn. A hand brushed against mine as we reach for sugar. Eyes locking a fraction too long. Smiles that linger just past polite. I have to fight the urge to lean forward, to test the invisible pull between us.
But the self-imposed rules are still there. I need to remain objective. Keep my distance. I remind myself why I’m here.
My father.
He’s the reason I landed this gig with The Raptors. Not my talent alone. Not my connections, not my ability to write a clean story without sensationalism.
It’s him. Pulling strings quietly behind the scenes, anonymous financial backing invested in the team’s media expansion. Every note I take, every article I file, every observation I make is tethered to that hidden agenda. Failure isn’t just personal; it could compromise an investment that’s millions deep.
I press my thumb to my coffee cup, breathing slowly. The weight of it is familiar, suffocating, and yet exhilarating. I need to prove I can be professional, smart, competent. And still, here I am, secretly thrilled that Ollie Taylor noticed me.
He’s telling a story about a ridiculous pre-season drill when his stick got caught in his own skate laces. I laugh, genuinely, and the tension eases, replaced by the warmth of simple, human connection. I notice the subtle wince again as he shifts his hip, but he hides it behind humour, shrugging like it’s nothing.
“You know,” I say softly, “you don’t have to make it all jokes. You can admit it hurts sometimes.”
He glances at me, eyes flicking away briefly, jaw tight. “Nah. That’s not really me. Don’t want anyone seeing me struggle. Team counts on me to be solid. Unshakable.”
I nod, understanding his loyalty. The sacrifice. The weight of being a professional athlete. And suddenly I feel protective, too, a dangerous thought that collides with my discipline.
But then his grin returns, just for me, small and private, and my chest flutters.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
