Page 43 of Face Off
Later, as I pack up, my phone buzzes again.
Ollie: Coffee debrief? Or…maybe something more proper. Dinner? Tomorrow night?
I grin.
Me: Dinner sounds perfect.
I feel like the world has shifted slightly on its axis, and I’m dizzy, thrilled, and terrified all at once.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OLLIE
Istretch my legs on the edge of the rink, feeling the stiffness in my left hip nagging like an uninvited guest. Coach isn’t letting me get away with ignoring it. “Mia will sort you,” he’d barked this morning, waving a hand toward the physio room like he was shooing a dog. “Then you’re on weights. No excuses. Get moving.”
I glance toward Mia, who is already setting up her kit by the rink doors. Her ponytail swings over her shoulder, and she gives me a smile. “Ready for your punishment?” she asks, her tone teasing but with the edge of authority that makes me straighten.
“Always,” I mutter, trying for casual, though I already know my hip isn’t going to behave.
Mia has me go through my usual warm-up, gentle stretches, mobility drills. She presses on the spot that always hurts, raising an eyebrow. “Still tender?”
“Subtle,” I reply, wincing slightly. She shakes her head. “You hide it well, but don’t. You push through, you make it worse. You know that.”
I swallow. She’s right, as always. My hip hasn’t stopped niggling, especially when the drills get intense. Coach wantsresults, the team expects speed and impact, and I don’t want to look weak. Not in front of the others. But with Mia, I can’t hide anything. She’s the one person who’ll call me on it without hesitation.
We work through exercises that force me to activate the muscles around the joint, core engagement, lateral slides, balance work on the BOSU ball. I grit my teeth through a few of them, feeling the tightness in my hip flare. She’s watching every micro-expression, correcting my form.
“Better,” she says after ten minutes. “You can skip the ice for a drill or two, but don’t think I’m letting you off weight training.”
I nod, grimacing. “Understood.”
Coach’s voice carries across the rink. “Taylor! Enough bonding with the physio. Weights, now. Chop-chop.”
Mia smirks at me. “Try not to limp through the rest of the day, yeah?”
“Noted,” I mutter, already heading toward the weight room.
The clang of metal and the low hum of the ventilation welcome me. Dylan is already on the bench press, Jacko adjusting plates, Murphy doing stretches in the corner. The room smells of sweat, rubber mats, and determination; the kind of scent that sticks in your nostrils and reminds you exactly why you play.
I grab a dumbbell, doing a set of presses, glancing up at the team. Jacko nods a greeting; Dylan doesn’t acknowledge me beyond a fleeting glance; Murphy grunts a hello. None of them notices my subtle wince when my hip tenses during a move.
I keep it hidden. Always.
Between sets, I catch a glimpse of my phone tucked in my shorts pocket. Chloe’s name flashes.
Chloe: Hope your physio wasn’t torturous. Dinner tonight. I have a new place in mind.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to grin. Keep it cool. Professional. Keep it secret. The last thing I want is the team speculating. I type back slowly, careful.
Ollie: I’ll meet you. 7?
Chloe: Perfect.
I slide the phone back and take a deep breath. Focus on the reps. Ignore the flutter in my chest. But my shoulders carry a little more tension, my grip a fraction tighter.
The team’s banter hums around me. Murphy complains about the music (I know better than to say a word), Jacko’s quietly correcting form for someone who clearly doesn’t want to be corrected. I smile faintly. Their rhythm, their chaos, it’s a comfort and a pressure at the same time.
I’m aware of everything, watching for cues, calculating. I don’t want to tip my hand, not yet. Chloe isn’t part of the team, and this, the night we’re about to spend together, is ours. Hidden. Precious.
