Page 71 of Face Off
She squeezes my ankle lightly before standing. “Now, let’s get you taped up before Coach comes in here and asks why you’re crying on my table.”
“I wasn’t crying,” I grumble, but my voice cracks on the word.
“Sure you weren’t,” she says with a smirk.
By the time I hit the locker room, the guys are already loud. Murphy’s holding court, telling some story about a disastrous fan meet and greet. Jacko’s chuckling in the corner, Dylan and Jonno shaking their heads like they’ve heard it all before.
Normally, I’d slip right into the rhythm. Throw a chirp back, laugh, let it wash over me. But today, as soon as I sit down, I can feel the subtle shift.
Murphy’s eyes flick my way. His grin falters. A couple of the younger guys exchange glances, mutter something low. It’s not outright hostility, it’s worse. It’s hesitation. Like they don’t know if I’m still one of them, or something separate.
The fallout from Chloe in the showers is still hanging in the air. Nobody says her name, but she’s there. A ghost in every sidelong glance.
“You good, Taylor?” Chris, one of the rookies asks, tone too careful.
“Peachy,” I say flatly, yanking my jersey over my head.
The silence that follows says it all.
Murphy grunts something incoherent but I let it slide. Anything to avoid lighting the fuse.
That’s when Jacko speaks. Calm, steady, the way only he can. “He’s still Ollie. Still the guy who’ll drop gloves before you even finish asking. Stop acting like he grew horns.”
The words hit me square in the chest. My throat tightens. I keep my head down, taping my stick like nothing’s wrong, but inside, I’m clinging to that lifeline.
Because Jacko’s right, Iamstill me. And he’s the only one who seems to remember it.
Practice is ruthless. Coach doesn’t let up, running us through relentless skating drills, puck battles, full-contact scrimmages that leave my lungs burning. Every stride pulls at my hip like a warning bell, but I push harder, trying to drown out the noise in my head.
Murphy chirps me from the bench, something about skating like a pensioner, but I tune him out. My focus is narrowed, laser-sharp, because if I let it slip, I’ll think too much. About contracts. About secrets.
By the time practice ends, my shirt is plastered to my skin, legs trembling with exhaustion. Jacko claps me on the shoulder as we head toward the showers.
“Good grind today,” he says, his way of telling me he saw me hurting but pushing through anyway.
“Yeah,” I mutter, forcing a smile.
Later, when the room is quiet, I find myself alone on the bench, lacing and unlacing my skates just to keep my hands busy. The echo of Mia’s words won’t leave me.Find your anchor.
I pull my phone from my bag, hesitating only a second before tapping out a message.
Ollie: You’re my favourite complication. Don’t run, yeah?
The dots appear almost instantly.
Chloe: Complication, huh? That’s romantic.
Ollie: You know what I mean.
Chloe: I do. And I’m not running.
My chest eases for the first time all day. I tuck the phone away, shoulders sagging with something that almost feels like relief.
Tomorrow will bring more drills, more noise, more secrecy. But right now, I’ve got an anchor. And that’s enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHLOE
