Page 87 of Face Off
Jacko’s the first to move. He stands, crossing the room to clap me on the shoulder. “Ignore him,” he mutters low, steady. “You’ve got nothing to prove.”
But I do. Every stare in this room says so.
Still, I force myself to keep my head high, hobbling on crutches to my stall, pretending I can’t feel the whispers clawing at my back.
That evening, Jacko drags me and Chloe to his place for dinner. Maya greets us with a warm smile and a kiss on Jacko’s cheek, the smell of garlic bread drifting from the kitchen.
For a while, the tension eases. We eat, we laugh, we listen to Lila chatter about school and unicorns.
Then Lila fixes Chloe with a serious little frown.
“Did you hurt my Ollie?” she asks, voice solemn.
Chloe freezes, fork halfway to her mouth.
Jacko coughs into his glass, fighting a laugh. Maya shoots him a look.
I glance at Chloe, heart in my throat, but she surprises me. She leans down, meeting Lila’s gaze with the same steady calm she shows me.
“No, sweetheart,” she says softly. “But I’m going to take care of him.”
Lila studies her a moment longer, then nods, satisfied. “Good, because he’s mine too.”
The table bursts into laughter, the tension breaking. Chloe’s cheeks flush, but she squeezes my hand under the table, and something eases in my chest.
And I let myself believe that maybe we’ll make it through this.
But later, when everyone’s asleep, I find my mind drifting back to the rink.
The ice gleaming under the dim lights, empty, waiting. I envisage hobbling to the boards, lowering myself onto the bench. My skates stay in the bag, untouched.
I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar chill, the faint echo of blades cutting ice. Out here, the noise fades, the whispers, the doubts, the venom in Murphy’s voice.
All that’s left is me.
And for now, that has to be enough.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHLOE
The hum of my laptop is the only sound in the little office space Coach grudgingly handed over. Four walls that smell faintly of dust and coffee grounds, a desk with one wobbly leg, and a view of the car park out back where the ice still clings to the tarmac in stubborn patches. It’s hardly glamorous, but right now it’s the only place I can breathe.
Murphy’s words from the confrontation still sting. He didn’t even need to raise his voice, his disgust carried in every syllable. He made it clear, again, that he thinks I’m poison. And Ollie’s paying the price just for being near me.
I should walk away. It would be the smart thing. Leave, protect him, protect myself. But then I see him in my mind again, the moment he hit the boards, the agony carved into his face, and I know I can’t. If I leave now, Murphy wins. And Ollie loses more than just me.
So I write.
My fingers fly across the keys, filling the blank screen with words I’ve never dared commit before. Not about Ollie directly, but about what this sport does to people, the bruises, thesurgeries, the quiet mornings when you can’t bend down to tie your skates but you lace them anyway.
This isn’t just a love story,I type. My stomach flips as the words settle on the page.It’s a story about survival.
The door creaks open. Benji, the rookie with wet hair and a perpetual deer-in-headlights look, pokes his head in.
“Uh, Chloe? You said you needed quotes?” His voice is cautious, polite, like he’s not sure if he should even be talking to me.
“Yeah.” I snap the laptop closed before he can see anything. Grab my notepad. “Two minutes.”
