Page 80 of Face Off
And no chirp from Murphy, no threat from above, is going to change that.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHLOE
The morning feels heavier than usual, as if the air itself is pressing down on me, reminding me of every word my father spat at me.Mistake. Puck bunny. Letdown.
I lie in bed longer than I should, staring at the ceiling, half hoping the weight will ease if I just stay still. But when I roll over and find Ollie’s side empty, sheets rumpled, pillow indented, already cold, I know lying here isn’t an option. He’s at the rink. He’s pushing through, because that’s who he is. And if he can face that kind of storm, then I can’t keep hiding under the covers.
The shower is too hot, scalding enough to sting my skin. Maybe I want it to sting, to burn away the hurt I feel. My coffee is bitter, but it jolts me upright. I sling my laptop bag over my shoulder, tug my coat closed, and head for the door before doubt can sink its claws in again.
The drive feels like it lasts a lifetime. Every red light stretches, every car in front of me moves too slow. My grip tightens around the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. By the time I pull into the rink’s car park, my stomach is knotted so tightly it’s hard to breathe.
Inside, the chill of the rink slaps me awake. The sound of blades carving into ice, pucks cracking against sticks, coaches barking orders, it should feel familiar by now. But today, there’s something off beneath it all. A hum of tension, sharp and unrelenting.
I climb to my usual seat in the stands, my laptop tucked under my arm. From here, I can see everything, the players grinding through drills, the way Murphy prowls the ice with that smug grin, the rookies half-laughing too loud at his chirps. And Ollie. Always Ollie.
He’s skating like a man possessed, every stride a dare. His hip can’t possibly keep up with the pace he’s setting, but he refuses to slow down. I catch the faint hitch in his stride, the way his jaw tightens, but he drives harder. It’s almost reckless, and yet I’ve never seen him look more determined.
A strange heat fills my chest watching him. Pride, fear, and love all tangled together. He’s not choosing one or the other. Not me or hockey. He’s fighting for both. Even if it kills him.
I snap open my laptop, forcing myself to focus. The season-long article won’t write itself, and if I have any chance of proving I belong here, of proving to my father that I’m not some hanger-on, it’s going to come from putting words to what I see.
Discipline. Brotherhood. The fragile line between loyalty and destruction.
My fingers start moving, but my eyes keep flicking back to Ollie. He digs in during a skating drill, sweat glistening across his brow, and all I can think about is Mia’s warning, that he’s more than his hip, more than the ice. But right now, he’s all about grit.
And Murphy hates him for it.
I see it building. The way Murphy shadows him in drills, always a step too close. The way he chirps just a little louderwhen Ollie passes. His grin is too sharp, his hits against other players too heavy, like he’s winding himself up for something.
The rookies notice it too, their laughter quieter now, uncertain. Jacko barks something at Murphy that doesn’t carry far enough for me to hear, but the look Murphy shoots back is poison.
My pulse spikes. This is going to explode. I can feel it.
They set up for a scrimmage. Ollie takes the wing, crouched low, focus burning in every line of his body. He looks ready to tear the ice in half.
The puck drops.
Everything happens too fast and too slow all at once. Ollie bursts down the wing, stick handling clean, stride strong despite the limp trying to catch him. He looks like himself, dangerous, unstoppable. And then Murphy comes barrelling in.
It’s not a clean check. It’s not even close. It’s a deliberate slam, shoulder and elbow driving into Ollie’s side with violent force.
The crack of his body hitting the boards echoes through the rink like a gunshot. My breath seizes in my lungs.
Ollie bounces back, fury etched into every line of him. He spins, fast, ready to retaliate. For a second, I think he’ll give it back harder, prove Murphy can’t break him.
But then his skate catches. His hip twists wrong.
The sound that tears out of him isn’t human. It’s raw, guttural, a sound that doesn’t belong on ice but in nightmares.
And then he’s down.
Stick clattering away. Body folding. Hands clutching his hip.
Silence falls across the rink like a curtain dropping. Even Murphy freezes, eyes wide for the briefest second before he masks it with a scowl.
“Taylor!” Coach’s whistle shrieks, but Ollie doesn’t move.
