Page 6 of Face Off
“Oi, Miller.”
I turn. Ollie’s there, hair still damp, kit bag slung over one shoulder. He’s close enough that the corridor feels smaller, the air charged.
“What do you want, Taylor?” I keep my voice even, professional.
He runs a hand through his hair, then drops it fast, restless. “Just don’t let Murph get to you, yeah? He’s protective.”
“He’s hostile.”
“He has reason.” The words bite out before he can stop them. Then his jaw tightens, regret flashing. “Look, I’m not saying…hell, I’m not even sure what I’m saying.”
For a second, the mask slips. He looks at me like he wants to confess something, something real, heavy, dangerous. Like he wants to explain why his gaze keeps snagging on me, why he keeps stepping in, why every joke lands sharper than it should.
But then he shakes his head, shutters slamming back in place. “Forget it.”
And he strides past, leaving the scent of soap and ice in his wake.
I stand there, notebook pressed hard to my chest, heart pounding with words unsaid.
Ollie Taylor is breaking rules I didn’t even know existed.
And the worst part?
I don’t think I want him to stop.
CHAPTER THREE
OLLIE
If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s filling silence. And right now, the Raptors’ locker room is drowning in it.
Murphy’s got his scowl cranked to lethal, the kind of look that could snap a rookie in half without a word. Dylan’s doing his usual broody statue thing in the corner, lacing his skates like he’s thinking about war crimes. And Jacko’s calm, but I know that jaw tick. He’s listening, cataloguing, planning.
Me? I can’t stand the tension vibrating off the walls. So, I do what I always do; lean back, grin wide, and talk loud enough to break the ice.
“Question for the boys,” I announce, spinning my tape roll like it’s a coin. “If you were a biscuit, what would you be?”
Jacko doesn’t even blink. “A bourbon.”
“Obviously,” I nod, smirk tugging. “Tall, plain, dependable. No one picks you first, but you’ll do the job.”
“Oi,” Jacko grunts, but his towel flick has no heat behind it.
“Come on, though,” I grin wider, seizing the opening. “We all know you’d pick something homemade. Like, you’d be…what? That oat-thing you shoved at me last week that tasted like health food and sadness?”
Jacko narrows his eyes. “That was a flapjack. And it had protein in it.”
“Yeah, mate, so does dog food,” I fire back. “Difference is, nobody pretends dog food’s a treat.”
Laughter ripples through the room. Even Dylan lets out one sharp huff, like an iceberg cracking.
Jacko folds his arms across his chest. “Fine. If I’m any biscuit, I’m shortbread. Classic. Solid. Few ingredients, done right.”
Murphy mutters under his breath, “More like digestive. Bland as hell.”
“Oi,” Jacko shoots back, “at least I don’t live on takeout chips and Sophie’s leftovers.”
“Yeah, because you bake at two in the bloody morning like some apron-wearing vampire,” I put in, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt. “How many loaves this week? Seven? Eight?”
