Page 77 of Face Off
He straightens, throws me one last look of disgust, and stalks out.
I sit frozen, cheeks burning, shame crawling hot up my neck. The old me would’ve bolted, left the coffee half-finished, hidden in my flat for days. But Ollie’s voice echoes in my head.You’re worth more than their whispers. Worth more than your dad’s bullshit.
My hands still shake, but I force myself to finish the croissant. Bite after bite, chewing even though my stomach protests. It feels like defiance. The silence of my stoic resolve is only punctuated by my phone vibrating on the table.
Ollie: Back at mine. Come over?
I don’t hesitate.
Chloe: On my way.
He meets me at the door in sweats and a T-shirt, hair damp from a shower, expression tired but softening the second he sees me.
“Hey,” he says gently, like he can sense the crack in my chest. “Bad day?”
I swallow hard. “Murphy found me at the bakery.”
Ollie stiffens instantly, jaw tightening. “What did he say?”
I shrug, trying for casual but failing. “The usual. That I don’t belong. That I’m…” My voice falters. “That I’m embarrassing you.”
His hands are on my face before I can finish, thumbs brushing my cheeks, eyes blazing. “Don’t youeverbelieve him. He doesn’t get to define you. You hear me?”
Tears prick my eyes, stupid and unwanted. “It’s just… Dad said almost the same thing this morning.”
Ollie exhales sharply, pulling me into his chest. I press my face into the cotton of his shirt, breathing him in, grounding myself. His arms wrap around me like armour.
“He doesn’t get to define you either,” he murmurs into my hair. “Not him, not Murphy. You’re not theirs to break.”
Something inside me unclenches at that, and I tilt my face up to kiss him. It’s not urgent this time. It’s slow, tender, almost shy. His lips linger on mine like he has all the time in the world.
“Stay tonight,” he whispers.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
The smile that curves his mouth makes my chest ache in the best way.
Later, curled in bed with his arm draped over me, I tell him. Not everything, not all the jagged edges of my childhood, butenough. About how Dad’s money always bought my friends, about how I never knew if people likedmeor the cheques he wrote. About how every time I tried to make a choice for myself, he found a way to remind me it wasn’t mine to make.
Ollie listens, stroking my hair, not interrupting. When I finish, voice raw, he presses a kiss to my temple.
“You’re not alone anymore,” he says simply.
It’s not a grand speech. It’s better. Because I believe him.
We fall asleep wrapped in each other. Me holding on for dear life, holding on to the hope that Ollie instils in me.
The next morning, he wakes me with coffee, already dressed for the rink. He sits on the edge of the bed, grinning down at me like I’m something precious.
“You’re staying here today,” he says, like it’s fact. “Safe. Warm. No Murphy, no Dad. Just you.”
“I’m supposed to be following the team, remember?” I raise my eyebrows as I remind him, I do actually have a job to do. Even if it’s a job my father secured for me.
“There’s nothing going on today. We’re running drills and watching videos of the Wildcats for tomorrow’s game. You can stay here and take a self-care day.” He leans down to kiss my forehead.
I roll my eyes, but my heart melts anyway. “You’re bossy.”
He smirks, leaning down to kiss me once more before standing. “And you love it.”
