Page 81 of Face Off
I’m already on my feet, laptop forgotten, legs carrying me down the stands two steps at a time. My breath comes shallow, my heart a drumbeat in my throat. I push past the gate, half-sprinting across the cold concrete until I’m at the edge of the bench, fingers gripping the railing so hard it digs into my skin.
Medical staff rush the ice, skates cutting sharp lines as they slide toward him. Jacko’s the first player at his side, crouched low, hand on Ollie’s shoulder, eyes blazing.
“Don’t move,” one of the trainers orders, kneeling beside him.
Ollie groans, a sound that rips me in half. He tries to push himself up, stubborn even in agony, but they hold him down, voices calm but firm.
I can’t hear every word, but I catch enough. Hip, rotation, not stable.
The team hovers in a circle, all noise gone. Murphy lingers at the edge, arms crossed, face unreadable.
My vision blurs, tears stinging, but I blink them back. I can’t fall apart. Not here. Not when he needs me steady.
Coach storms across the ice, fury radiating off him in waves. He shouts something at Murphy, sharp and cutting, before crouching beside the medics. His voice softens there, but the lines around his mouth are carved deep.
It feels like hours, but it’s only minutes before they lift Ollie carefully onto a stretcher, strapping him down to keep his hip from shifting. His face is pale, twisted in pain, but his eyes find me at the boards.
Even now, when he’s broken, when he should be thinking only of himself, his gaze locks on me like I’m the anchor holding him steady.
My heart shatters.
I want to climb the boards, want to run onto the ice, want to take his hand and promise it’ll be okay. But I can’t. I’m not allowed out there. I’m just the journalist. Just the scandal.
So I grip the railing until my knuckles bleed white and whisper to myself instead. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”
As they wheel him off, the team parts to let him through. Nobody speaks. Nobody breathes. The silence is louder than any crowd.
When the doors close behind him, the sound of them slamming echoes through me like a verdict.
Because this isn’t just about hockey anymore. It’s everything. His contract. His career. His body. Us.
And for the first time since my father’s threats, I truly understand the weight of what we’re up against.
I’ve never felt so powerless. Or so determined.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
OLLIE
The world narrows to fluorescent lights and the sharp stink of disinfectant.
My hip is screaming, every throb a reminder of how fast everything fell apart. One second, I was on my skates, head clear, body locked in, proving Murphy couldn’t rattle me. The next, I’m hitting the boards, white-hot pain, and the kind of silence you only get when something’s gone horribly wrong.
Now I’m flat on a hospital bed in the rink’s medical wing, strapped up like a bloody science experiment while Mia and Jonno hover with clipboards and clinical voices. I want to tell them to sod off, that I’m fine, but the truth is written all over me. My face is clammy, my shirt’s half stuck to my back with sweat, and I can’t shift without feeling like my hip’s about to snap in half.
Chloe’s perched on the chair beside me, her hand wrapped tight around mine. She hasn’t let go since they wheeled me off the ice. Her eyes are steady, even though her lips press into a line so thin it looks painful.
“Alright, Ol,” Jonno says, tapping something into his notes. “Talk to me. Scale of one to ten.”
“Three,” I grit out, even though the number feels more like eleven.
Mia’s eyebrow shoots up. “Try again.”
I glare at the ceiling. “Five.”
Chloe squeezes my hand like she’s calling bullshit on me, too.
Jonno crouches so we’re eye level. He’s calm, but there’s no give in his voice. “Listen, mate. I’ve seen enough injuries to know when someone’s trying to play tough. You’re not doing yourself favours by lying.”
