Page 88 of Face Off
He steps in but hovers by the door, eyes darting like someone’s watching. And they probably are. Murphy doesn’t need to say anything out loud, the rookies have already caught on that being seen with me isn’t a good career move as far as Murphy’s concerned.
I keep my questions simple. “Halfway through your first season. How’s it feel?”
“Good.” Too quick. Too clipped.
“And biggest adjustment?”
“Speed.” One-word answers, rehearsed. Safe.
I jot it down, force a smile, and let him go. He all but bolts.
The hollow in my chest spreads wider. It’s happening, Murphy’s shadow stretching over the younger guys, warping the air between us until I feel radioactive.
By the time I leave the office, the hall is quiet. No clatter of skates on concrete, no banter spilling out of the locker room. Just the distant rhythm of weights clanging in the gym.
I follow the sound, keeping to the edge of the doorway.
Ollie’s there. Flat on his back, sweat darkening the neckline of his shirt, grimacing as Jonno adjusts his leg into a stretch band. His jaw is locked, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if sheerwillpower alone will keep his hip from shattering under the pressure.
Mia stands nearby, arms folded, her expression a careful balance of stern and encouraging. “Ease into it, Ollie. Don’t force range you don’t have yet.”
“Feels fine,” he grits.
Jonno shoots him a look that could peel paint. “Feels fine until it tears again. Work with me, not against me.”
From my spot by the door, I can see every line of tension in Ollie’s body. His hands fist at his sides, muscles trembling with the effort not to fight them. He looks like a caged animal, barely tolerating the leash.
And yet, when his gaze flicks sideways, it finds me. Just for a heartbeat. His lips don’t move, but I feel the weight of the silent words anyway.Thank you.
The lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe.
Before I can step inside, voices drift from farther down the hall.
“Discipline, Murph,” Coach’s tone is sharp, clipped. “You know better than to put teammates at risk.”
“All I did was finish a check,” Murphy says, his tone smooth, too innocent. “If Ollie can’t handle contact, maybe he shouldn’t be back in the mix yet.”
My fists clench. He knows Ollie isn’t cleared for the ice, knows rehab will take weeks. He’s twisting it, making it sound like weakness.
“You play clean where the team is concerned,” Coach says flatly, “or you sit. That’s not an idle threat.”
Murphy’s laugh echoes, lazy and mocking. “Message received, Coach.”
My blood burns, but I keep still. If I storm in now, it’ll only prove Murphy’s point, that I’m a distraction, a problem.So, I stand there, my nails biting half-moons into my palm, and swallow the fury.
When I glance back into the gym, Jonno is easing Ollie off the stretch band, muttering instructions about ice packs and rest. Ollie pushes himself up, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. His face is pale, pain leaking through the cracks of his pride, but he doesn’t complain.
He never complains.
I slip into the stands later, pulling out my notebook, pretending to jot down practice notes when really, I’m just holding myself together. The rookies shuffle past without eye contact. Dylan throws me a small, almost apologetic wave. The silence speaks louder than words.
And then Murphy. Last out of the gym, towel slung around his neck, smirk sharp enough to cut. He doesn’t bother with words this time. Just a long, deliberate look that says everything he wants me to hear.You don’t belong. You never will.
I hold his stare until he turns the corner. Only then do my shoulders slump.
Back in the office, my hands tremble too much to write. I sit there, staring at the blank page, and force myself to breathe.
Murphy wants me gone. He’s won over half the locker room. And Ollie’s contract is hanging by a thread, and Murphy knows it. He’ll use every ounce of charm, every quip, to tip the scales against him now that he knows we’re together.
