Page 100 of Face Off
Instead, I catch him giving two rookies a look sharp enough to cut steel when they start whispering as I pass. He jerks his chin toward the ice like a drill sergeant. “Less gossip, more hustle. Move it.”
The rookies scramble, and Murphy doesn’t glance at me again.
I make a note of it in the margin of my pad, pencil pressing harder than I mean to. Murphy corralling rookies. Locker roomtone shifting. Not trust. Not forgiveness. But something closer to peace.
It unsettles me, if I’m honest. Like a storm that’s passed without warning, leaving behind an uncanny calm.
I tuck myself onto a folding chair by the glass, scribbling observations while Mia guides Ollie through his rehab drills on the far side of the gym space. He moves gingerly at first, cautious but determined. Sweat darkens the back of his shirt within minutes, and I can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s pushing past the ache.
Every so often he flicks his gaze toward me. Not long stares, not distractions, just quick check-ins, little reminders that I’m here and that matters to him. And every time, I feel the tether between us tighten.
I’m so focused on him that I almost miss Sophie sliding into the seat beside me, her perfume sharp and sweet, her coat still buttoned against the chill.
“Well, if it isn’t the bad penny,” she says dryly, crossing her legs. “Can’t get rid of you no matter how many times we flip the coin.”
I blink at her. “Good morning to you too.”
Her smirk is sharp enough to rival Murphy’s, but there’s something softer in her eyes, something that makes me brace for impact.
“Relax,” she says, waving a hand. “This isn’t a drive-by. You’re useful, apparently. Who knew?”
“Useful?” I echo, unsure where this is going.
She leans closer, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “Murphy’s… trying. Emphasis on the ellipses. He’s not about to start knitting you a friendship bracelet, but he’s dialling it back. Schooling the rookies. Keeping the worst of his mouth shut. That’s you, by the way.”
I stare at her, trying to parse the layers of sarcasm. “That’s… good?”
“It’s a start,” Sophie says with a shrug. “But don’t expect sainthood. The man’s stubborn as hell, and a professional pain in the ass. I should know, I live and co-parent with him. Well, apparently, I’m marrying him, technically.”
Her engagement ring catches the light, and for a second, I see something vulnerable flicker across her expression. Then it’s gone, masked with another smirk.
“You’re like a bad habit, Miller,” she continues. “But apparently one he’s learning not to indulge in public.”
I don’t know what to say, so I default to honesty. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for Ollie. And I just got tired of hearing the same recycled shit over breakfast.” She stands, brushing invisible lint from her coat. “We’re throwing a celebration thingy. You and Ollie should come. Take it as the olive branch it is. And maybe, try not to throw it back in his face, yeah?”
Before I can respond, she’s already walking away.
I scribble another note in my pad: Sophie = reluctant ally. Murphy’s silence is her doing. Don’t squander it.
But the words blur as my phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out, and my stomach drops when I see the sender.
Miller Holdings.
Not my father himself, of course. He never dirties his hands with emails. But his office. His proxy. His shadow.
Chloe,it begins, cold as marble.Your review is scheduled for next week. We’ll need a comprehensive update on your article progress. Deliverables will be evaluated against theinitial brief. Kindly remember this is a corporate contract, not a personal indulgence.
My throat tightens. I know what “not a personal indulgence” means. It means don’t risk the star winger.
It means the warning he gave me at the start of the season still hangs over us like a guillotine.
I close the email quickly, palms clammy against the phone. My pencil hovers uselessly above the paper, and for the first time all morning, I can’t focus on the rink. Not on Ollie’s steady grit, not on the rookies falling into line, not even on the silence where Murphy’s mockery used to be.
All I can hear is my father’s voice, quiet and lethal.Don’t lose me this deal, Chloe. Don’t lose me this team.
That night, Ollie’s flat is dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft glow of the lamp by his sofa. We’ve eaten and the dishes are still scattered on the counter, and now we’re curled up in bed, legs tangled, the air warm with the smell of him.
