Page 47 of Face Off
I grin, feeling the warmth in my chest. “Everything? I don’t know if I can,”
“Try me,” she demands, leaning closer to the camera, eyes bright and mischievous. “Or I’ll lecture you for hours about keeping secrets from me.”
I laugh, resting my head back against the couch. “It was… intense. Reckless. And honestly, Hannah… I think I’m in trouble.”
Her grin is triumphant. “Finally. About time. Don’t tell me you’re going to try and fight it?”
“Try? No. Not fighting,” I murmur, heart hammering. “But careful. There are still complications.”
“Complications can be sorted,” she says, shrugging. “Right now, focus on the fun part. The him part. The being-with-him part.”
I close my eyes, smile spreading across my face, replaying the warmth of his touch, the curve of his smile, the way his eyes locked on mine. And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I deserve a little reckless happiness.
Because Ollie Taylor isn’t just a distraction, and I’m not just a headline. We’re something real, something messy, something thrilling. And I’m not going to fight it anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
OLLIE
The morning air hits me when I walk into the rink, sharp and cold, but it barely registers. My focus is elsewhere, tangled in last night, in Chloe. The memory of her hands brushing mine, the way she’d pressed close in the kitchen, the teasing glint in her eyes, it all sits under my skin, distracting and thrilling all at once. I shake my head as if to clear it, but the memory lingers, a spark that refuses to die.
Jacko is already pacing the ice, giving off his usual calm authority. The rookies are stretching, expressions unreadable, while Murphy is busy muttering about the new drills, shaking his head at anything that doesn’t go according to plan. I can’t help the small grin that creeps onto my face at his predictability.
I lace my skates, careful, methodical, but even this simple ritual isn’t enough to keep my mind from wandering. Chloe. Coffee mugs abandoned on the counter, lips pressed to mine, hands tangled in hair and jacket alike. The memory is a live wire, humming in my chest, reminding me of what I want and can’t quite have in public.
Coach blows the whistle. “Warm-up. Eyes sharp, heads sharper. Don’t give them a chance.”
I step onto the ice, the friction of blades against the polished surface grounding me momentarily. The puck hits my stick, a satisfying click, but even as I pass, I feel the phantom heat of Chloe’s fingers brushing my erection. I push it aside, focusing on the drills, skating tight patterns, aggressive checks, rapid passes. Dylan towers over me, Murphy chattering beside me, Jacko directing, and yet, even here, my attention keeps straying.
“Oi, Taylor!” Murphy yells, waving his stick at me. “You’re grinning like a fool. Did someone call you a hero in the mirror or are you just imagining a romantic plot?”
I snort, shaking my head. “Nothing like that.”
“Sure,” he mutters, unconvinced, but lets it slide. Typical Murphy, tease first, judge later.
The first period is relentless. The opposing team is a brick wall of aggression, hammering at our defence, forcing me to respond, to anticipate, to stay alert. My hip aches quietly, a dull whisper of pain, a reminder that it’s still there and still stubborn. I grit my teeth, hiding it behind precise movements and controlled aggression. Chloe is in the back of my mind, a subtle, insistent nudge, keeping me sharp, keeping me on edge.
A break in play allows me a brief respite, and I glance toward the press box, imagining her there, notebook open, eyes focused, trying not to smile. That thought alone makes me grin, and I push harder on the next shift, letting the memory fuel my aggression on the ice. Every pass, every shot, every dodge is sharper, faster, more calculated.
Murphy catches me at mid-ice during a pause and shoves me lightly. “Get your head out of the clouds, Ol. Next time the puck’s in your face, I don’t want daydreams getting in the way.”
I grin, nodding, even as the blush of thought makes me want to swear under my breath. He has no idea. Not a clue. Not that anyone will.
The second period is brutal. Bodies slam into boards, sticks clash, skates scrape. I feel every hit, every movement, my hip protesting more audibly, but I ignore it. Chloe isn’t a distraction here, she’s a motivator, a subtle push that keeps me alert, keeps me alive in the chaos.
We score late in the period. A clean strike past the goalie, perfect placement. I imagine Chloe seeing it, maybe jotting down a note, a small smile tugging at her lips, and I can’t help the tiny victory grin that forms on my face.
“Ol, keep imagining,” Murphy yells, though there’s amusement in his tone. “This isn’t a soap opera. Puck’s coming, focus!”
I snap back, skating hard, diving for the next puck, ignoring the ache in my hip. Chloe’s there, in the corner of my mind, her presence like a tether to something warmer, something that isn’t just the roar of the rink and the clatter of sticks.
By the third period, we’re locked in a tense struggle. The other team is relentless, pushing every inch of ice. My muscles burn, lungs ache, but I push through, every movement calculated, every pass intentional. Chloe is the quiet drum in my chest, urging me forward, making me sharper, faster, harder.
The final whistle blows, signalling victory, but there’s no time to linger. The team collapses into laughter and chatter, collapsing into piles of sweaty jerseys and grins. Jacko claps my shoulder, Dylan nods tersely, Murphy’s already recounting the last play in loud, animated fashion.
I drag my gear toward the locker room, every step a reminder of what waits. Chloe. Alone. Watching. Patient. Dangerous.
The locker room is a wall of noise, sweat, and laughter. Jerseys are half-peeled off, pads scattered everywhere, the place smelling like victory and exhaustion rolled into one. Murphy’s standing on a bench, miming his goal with wild flailing armswhile Dylan shakes his head like he’s seen this show a thousand times.
