Page 89 of Face Off
But here’s the thing: I’ve been hated before. I’ve been torn apart in headlines, dragged across comment sections, laughed at in rooms I wasn’t in. And I survived.
I open the laptop again. The line about survival blinks at me.This isn’t just a love story. It’s a story about survival.
I type another line beneath it.
And survival means knowing when to fight back.
My chest heaves as the words settle on the screen, sharp and certain. For the first time all day, I don’t feel like I’m drowning. I feel ready.
The hum of the rink shifts, equipment clattering back into cupboards, voices fading. I close the laptop, shove it into my bag, and follow the sound down the corridor. My footsteps echo off the concrete, every step a reminder that I don’t have to sit behind glass walls and watch this unfold. I can choose where I stand.
And I stand with Ollie. Always.
I find him in the recovery room. The harsh fluorescent lights can’t dim the exhaustion in his posture. He’s propped awkwardly on the padded table, ice pack strapped to his hip, hair damp from a rushed shower. He looks up when I step in, eyes heavy-lidded, and something in me clenches.
“You should be heading home,” he mutters, voice rough with fatigue. “Not babysitting me.”
“I’m not babysitting,” I counter, sliding the door shut behind me. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He huffs, but it doesn’t quite reach a smile. “Place stinks of antiseptic. Hell of a date spot.”
I cross to him, dropping my bag on the chair. “Good thing I’m not here for the atmosphere.”
His gaze lingers on me, wary at first, then softening. He shifts slightly, wincing as the ice pack shifts. “Murphy?” he asks, reading me too easily.
“Still being Murphy,” I say flatly. “But I’m not giving him the satisfaction of rattling me.”
For a long beat, he studies me. His fingers twitch against the edge of the table, like he’s resisting the urge to reach for me. I don’t give him the choice, I take his hand, slotting mine into it, threading our fingers together until his grip finally tightens.
His shoulders drop like he’s been holding himself upright on sheer stubbornness alone. “I hate that you’re in the middle of this.”
“I put myself here,” I remind him softly. “Because I want to be. With you.”
The words settle between us, heavy and simple and true. His jaw flexes, like he’s holding back everything he doesn’t know how to say. So, I step closer, resting my free hand on his knee, grounding him.
“You’re not alone in this, Ollie,” I whisper. “Not with the hip, not with the team, not with Murphy. I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes close briefly, lashes damp against flushed skin. When they open again, the steel in them nearly undoes me. “You’re too good to me.”
“Or maybe,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across his knuckles, “you’re finally getting what you deserve.”
He exhales a shaky laugh, the sound more broken than amused. But he doesn’t let go. He holds on like I’m the only solid thing in a world tilting sideways.
And for once, I don’t feel like a ghost in someone else’s story. I feel like his.
We sit there until the rink falls silent, until the ice pack drips lukewarm and his grip loosens with exhaustion. I stay anyway. Because if survival means fighting back, then this, us, together, unshaken, is how I win.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
OLLIE
The apartment is quiet when we step inside, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears after the endless noise of the rink. I kick off my trainers by the door, tugging my hoodie over my head with a hiss when my hip protests the motion. Chloe’s already moving around, setting her bag down, flicking on the small lamp that throws the place into a warm amber glow.
It feels like another world in here. No whistles. No sharp blades on ice. No Murphy muttering his poison behind gritted teeth. Just Chloe.
She looks up, catching me watching her, and the corner of her mouth tugs upward. “What?”
I shake my head, lowering myself gingerly onto the sofa. “Just wondering how I got so bloody lucky.”
