Page 4 of Face Off
Her eyes lock on mine, steel blue and unflinching. “Funny. I was just about to say the same to you.”
We’re nose-to-nose in the corridor, trading barbs, when Coach’s voice barks from down the hall.
“Taylor! Leave her alone and get your ass to treatment!”
Chloe smirks, victory in her eyes. “Run along, winger boy. Don’t want your fans to see you limping.”
I spin away, but my pulse is racing, adrenaline buzzing like I’ve just scored a game-winner.
Because here’s the thing. Reporters don’t get under my skin. They never have.
But Chloe Miller? She might be the exception.
And if fate thinks sticking her in my orbit for a whole season is funny… Well, I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.
Bring it on.
CHAPTER TWO
CHLOE
The stain on my notebook looks like a bruise. Coffee, seeping into the paper, bleeding across the page. I press my thumb against it until the damp blurs my skin. Because I need the reminder, bruises fade. Stains stay.
And I can’t afford either. Not here. Not with Ollie Taylor’s smirk still echoing down the corridor.
The Raptors’ locker room hums with noise when I step inside. Too loud. Too hot. Too sharp.
They don’t hide their reaction. Heads turn, eyes narrow, voices dip and swell. Every inch of concrete and steel vibrates with male ego, and I’m the foreign body in the middle of it.
Samuel Murphy makes sure I feel it. His glare is a fist, his silence louder than any insult. He doesn’t need to say my name, the set of his jaw does it for him. I am the intruder. The problem. The reminder of a scandal he almost didn’t recover from.
I look past him, deliberate. My father’s money might be the reason I’m here, but Murphy doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
Ollie’s the one who breaks the tension.
“Careful, guys,” he drawls from his stall, undershirt clinging damp to his shoulders. “She’s probably here to rate our locker-room manners. Ten out of ten for charm so far, Murph.”
The laugh is quick, too quick. It gets a couple of stick taps, but it isn’t careless. I see the way his eyes cut sideways to Murphy before he grins back at me. He’s pushing a line, testing the room, testing me.
Murphy’s voice is flat, dangerous. “Shut it, Ollie.”
“Just saying.” Ollie shrugs, stretching out long legs like he owns the bench. “Wouldn’t want the Raptors’ image tarnished by your bedtime stories.”
More laughter, jagged this time. Murphy rises half an inch before Jacko’s hand clamps his shoulder. Calm, immovable.
“Enough,” Jacko says.
The air eases, fraction by fraction. Murphy sits, still glowering. Ollie pretends not to notice, spinning tape between his fingers like it’s nothing.
But I see it. The tension coiled under the banter, the guilt flashing quick as lightning in his expression. He’s defending his teammate, but he’s also looking at me. Too much. Too often.
He shouldn’t. He knows it. And that’s exactly why I can’t let myself react. I know his loyalty is with his teammate.
I take my place near the wall, notebook open. Professional. Detached.
The Raptors lace skates, snap helmets, and sling towels. Bodies move around me, heat radiating, the smell of sweat and leather heavy in the air. They talk over each other, banter sharp enough to sting.
But the rhythm shifts every time Ollie’s voice cuts through. He’s louder, brighter, deliberately casual. And yet his eyes track Murphy, always checking the temperature, always aware.
