Page 5 of Face Off
I write in neat strokes.Player dynamic: protective. Hierarchy reinforced.
I don’t add the rest:Ollie Taylor can’t stop looking at me.
On the ice, chaos reigns.
Coach’s whistle pierces through crashes of bodies, shouts, the scrape of blades carving across the surface. I sit on the bench, scribbling observations. Dylan stays silent as stone. Jacko herds with calm force. Murphy throws checks like he’s exorcising demons.
And Ollie plays like fire. Fast, reckless, too much edge. Every time he slams into the boards, my pulse jumps. Not because I care. Because I can see the way he favours his left hip. Subtle. Small. Hidden under bravado. But it’s there.
He crashes right in front of me, mask askew, breath steaming. “Enjoying the view, Miller?”
I arch a brow. “Looks painful.”
“Pain’s temporary. Goals are forever.” He flashes that grin, but it falters for a half-second. Not from me. From the way Murphy skates past, eyes flinty.
“Don’t write that down,” Ollie warns.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Liar.”
He pushes off before I can answer, back into the drill, cutting tight, fast, dangerous. The grin stays, but I saw the conflict. He wants to needle me. He also wants to protect Murphy. He can’t do both.
Not without tearing himself in two.
After practice, the locker room steams. Showers hiss, towels snap, laughter bounces. And Murphy doesn’t speak to me. Doesn’t look at me. Dylan laces boots with measured silence. Jacko offers a nod, it’s an acknowledgement, nothing more.
And Ollie?
He drops into the stall nearest mine, sprawling deliberately. Too close. Too casual. Like he doesn’t know Murphy’s watching from the corner of his eye.
“So,” he says, towel looped loose around his neck. “Day one. Still standing?”
I don’t miss the quick flicker of his glance toward Murphy. Calculating. Checking how far he can push.
I match his grin with steel. “Better than your shooting percentage.”
The room erupts. Even Jacko cracks half a smile. Ollie laughs with them, his hand pressed to his chest. “Cruel. But fair.”
But when the noise dies down, I catch the shift. His eyes darken, and his jaw tightens. For the briefest second, I see the weight he’s carrying. Not just attraction. Not just banter.
Loyalty. Guilt. Conflict.
And then Murphy snaps.
“You think this is funny?” His voice cuts across the chatter, sharp enough to sting. The room freezes. He stands, water dripping from his hair, towel slung low, chest rising hard. His glare pins me, then swings to Ollie. “You’re defending her? After everything she pulled? After Sophie?”
Ollie is up before I can blink, not with fists, but with presence. He plants himself half a step forward, broad shoulders blocking the worst of it.
“Enough, Murph,” he says, tone steady but tight. “She’s not here for you.”
The silence shudders. Murphy’s nostrils flare, fists flexing. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to swing, and Ollie’s jaw sets like he’s ready to take it if it means keeping Murphy from doing something worse.
Then Jacko’s voice cuts low, final. “Sit down, both of you.”
Murphy obeys, barely. Ollie lingers, then drops back to the bench, breathing hard. The chatter slowly creeps back, although strained at the edges. I keep my pen moving, though my hand trembles as I try to school my nerves.
The team filters out in waves, boots echoing down the tunnel, laughter fading. I walk alone, notebook hugged tight, heels clicking against concrete. But then footsteps echo behind me. Light, quick. Familiar.
