Page 97 of Face Off
“You look wrecked,” she says softly.
“Feel it,” I admit, dropping onto the sofa with a groan.
She settles beside me, curling her legs under her. The smell of curry fills the air, but she doesn’t reach for it yet. Instead, she flips open her notebook.
“Want me to read you something?”
I arch a brow. “Homework?”
“Field notes,” she corrects, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s about you, actually.”
That shuts me up.
She starts to read, voice low and steady. Words about resilience, about fighting when no one’s watching, about the difference between playing through pain and learning to heal through it. She doesn’t look at me while she reads, just keeps her eyes on the page, but I can feel every line burrow under my skin.
When she finishes, the room is quiet. My chest feels tight. “You make me sound like I’m worth something.”
She finally meets my gaze. “That’s because you are.”
The lump in my throat makes it impossible to answer. So I do the only thing I can, slide closer, tucking her against my chest, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. My arm settles carefully around her shoulders, mindful of my hip, but once she relaxes into me the rest of the world fades.
For the first time all day, the noise in my head quiets.
By the time she leaves, the city outside is humming with late-night traffic. I stand at the window, watching the lights blur, her words still circling in my mind.
Nobody gets to dictate my story, not the whispers, not even the fear gnawing at my gut every time I think about contracts and ice time.
It’s on me. My work ethic. My love for the game. My choice to keep showing up, no matter how slow the climb feels.
And if Chloe can see something worth writing about in me, even broken, limping me, then maybe I can start to believe it too.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
OLLIE
The band digs into my palms as I haul it tight against my chest. Sweat beads at my temple, sliding down my cheek, but I refuse to give in. Pull, hold, slow release. Jonno counts the beat out loud, voice steady and merciless.
“Five more.”
“Five?” I grit out, though my arms already feel like fire.
“Five,” he repeats, eyes narrowing. “Unless you want to be a passenger when you’re cleared.”
I don’t. The thought alone keeps me from dropping the band and storming out. I grind through the reps, hip screaming, shoulders burning, until Jonno finally signals for release. The band slaps back against the anchor point. I stand doubled over, chest heaving.
Mia’s perched on a box nearby, clipboard balanced on her knee. She doesn’t smile, but there’s the faintest nod of approval. “Better. Stronger.”
It should land like praise. It doesn’t. My brain twists it into a warning: better, but not enough. Stronger, but still one wrong movement away from snapping everything again.
Jonno crouches, tugging the band loose. “Your recovery curve’s on track, Ollie. Stay disciplined, you’ll be skating in no time.”
I mop my forehead with the hem of my shirt. “Yeah.”
The word tastes like ash. No time feels like forever when your whole identity is tied to ice.
Mia sets the clipboard aside. “Don’t roll your eyes. I’m saying this because it’s true. You’re not behind anymore. You’re right where you need to be.”
I try to swallow that down, but the fear still coils tight in my gut. One stumble, one strain, and everything I’ve fought for disappears.
