Page 86 of Face Off
I want to believe him. But Murphy’s venom seeps deep. The rookies hear him, laugh with him. Even Coach looks at me like I’m one bad headline away from wrecking everything.
Jacko must see the storm on my face, because he sighs. “Listen, Olls. Murphy’s being a dick right now, but he’s loyalto the core. Right now, he thinks he’s protecting the team. Protecting Sophie. You and Chloe… it’s complicated for him. Doesn’t mean he’s right. Doesn’t mean you back down either. You’ve got to decide what matters most, hockey or her.”
The words land heavy, because that’s the question that’s been clawing at me since the second Murphy found us in the showers.
“I can’t choose,” I admit, voice cracking. “Hockey’s all I’ve ever had. But Chloe, she’s—” I swallow hard. “She’s the first thing that’s made me feel like more than a pair of skates.”
Jacko’s gaze softens. “Then fight for both. Don’t let Murphy back you into a corner.”
The door creaks open again, and Chloe slips in. She looks composed, calm even, but her eyes give her away. They’re red-rimmed, tired, burning with something that isn’t just anger.
“Hey,” she says softly, crossing to the bed. Her hand finds mine, warm and steady.
Jacko rises, giving me a look that saysI’ll be back later. He nods at Chloe, then slips out, leaving us in the hush of beeping monitors.
“You okay?” I ask, searching her face.
She nods. “I found Murphy.”
My stomach twists. “Chloe…”
“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp, but it trembles at the edges. “He needed to hear it. He needed to know he doesn’t get to control me anymore. Or you.”
I want to argue, to tell her she’s only painting a bigger target on her back. But there’s steel in her eyes, something unbreakable, and I can’t bring myself to dim it.
“What did he say?”
Her lips press into a line. “Enough. But I gave it back.”
I squeeze her hand, even though my chest is tight with fear. Fear of Murphy, of the team splintering, of contracts slippingthrough my fingers. But Chloe’s hand is steady, grounding me in the storm.
“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper.
She tilts her head, eyes softening. “Then be the man who does.”
The words hit like a punch, sharp and clean. She’s not asking me to give up hockey. She’s not asking me to let Murphy win. She’s asking me to stand taller, even when everything feels like it’s crumbling.
I nod, throat thick. “I’ll try.”
The next day, rehab starts.
Mia is ruthless, pushing me to stretch, to breathe through the pain, to admit when I can’t. Every pull in my hip feels like fire, and sweat slicks my skin within minutes. I grit my teeth, refusing to give her the satisfaction of hearing me whine.
“You’re stubborn,” she mutters, hands firm as she guides my leg. “But stubborn doesn’t heal tears.”
“Neither does sitting on my arse,” I snap, then instantly regret it.
She raises a brow. “Then find the middle ground, Ollie. Or you’ll be watching playoffs from the stands.”
The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
When the session’s over, I limp down the corridor, crutches digging into my ribs. The locker room chatter reaches me before I push the door open.
“…Romeo’s back from physio,” Murphy’s voice carries, laced with mockery. “Watch your backs boys.”
Laughter ripples, sharp and uneasy.
My grip on the crutches tightens until my knuckles ache. When I step inside, the room falls half-silent. A few rookies look away, shame flickering in their eyes. Murphy just smirks, towel draped around his neck like a crown.
