Page 70 of Face Off
“Morning, Ollie,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You look like you got run over by the Zamboni.”
I snort. “Cheers, Mia. Appreciate the bedside manner.”
“I call it how I see it.” She flips to a fresh page on her notes, already tugging on latex gloves. “Hip?”
“Hip.”
She gestures for me to lie back, and I do, staring up at the ceiling tiles while she presses carefully along the joint, testingrange of motion. My jaw clenches when her thumb digs into a particularly tight spot.
“Still locking up?” she asks.
“Sometimes. Not as bad as before.”
“Be honest.”
I sigh. “Fine. Yeah. Still locks. Especially after games.”
Her expression softens, though her hands don’t. She rotates my leg slowly, searching for the limits. “You’ve been carrying this for a while, haven’t you?”
“Couple years.” I wince when she pushes too far.
“More like three,” she corrects gently. “I’ve seen the scans.”
Busted.
Mia sets my leg down and studies me. Not as a physio, but as someone who knows the weight of secrets. “You’re scared about what happens next, aren’t you?”
I blink at her. “What do you mean?”
Her lips twitch in something that’s not quite a smile. “Dylan and I… we had to keep things under wraps when we first got together. Not because we wanted to, but because I was scared, thought I’d lose my job too. It wasn’t the right time for the team, for the media, for,” she waves vaguely, “all the noise that comes with this job. It felt like walking a tightrope. One wrong step, and it was over.”
Her voice softens. “I see the same look in your eyes. It’s not just the hip, is it?”
I swallow hard. “Mia…”
“Dylan told me what happened in the locker room. You don’t have to tell me anything,” she interrupts, kind. “But I get it. More than you think.”
For a second, I want to dodge. Crack a joke. Pretend this is just about sore muscles. But the words burn in my throat, demanding to come out.
“I’m worried,” I admit quietly. “About my contract. About whether they’ll keep me on after this season. Hip’s bad enough, but now,” I cut myself off before I sayChloe’s name. “There’s all this other stuff. Complicated stuff. And I don’t know if I can juggle it all without screwing everything up.”
Mia doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t press. She just gives me that level, steady look that makes you feel like she’s already read every line of your story.
“Listen,” she says, setting her clipboard aside. “You’re more than your hip. You’re more than the ice. And you’re allowed to have a life outside this rink, no matter what anyone else says. If Dylan and I had waited until it was convenient, we’d still be pretending to be strangers.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Yeah, but you’re Dylan’s girl. You two are golden. Me? I’m?—”
“You’re Ollie Taylor,” she cuts in, sharp. “One of the best damn wingers in this league when you’re not beating yourself up. Don’t sell yourself short.”
The praise hits harder than it should. I rub a hand over my face, trying to mask the sting in my eyes.
Mia softens again. “If you want my advice? Hold onto the thing,or the person, that makes the rest worth it. That’s your anchor. That’s what’ll carry you through.”
Her words land with frightening accuracy. I picture Chloe’s laugh, the way she kisses like she’s starving and soft all at once. The way she admitted she’s terrified of being seen only as someone’s daughter, someone’s headline.
She’s my anchor, whether I deserve her or not.
“Thanks, Mia,” I murmur.
