Page 11 of Face Off
I tilt my head, trying not to show how much that makes me want to linger. “Write it down? Are you a reporter or a secret spy now?”
She shoots me a look that’s half exasperation, half amusement. “Maybe a bit of both. Depends who’s watching.”
I chuckle and take a step back, enough to let her breathe but not enough to leave her entirely. She’s careful, calculating, always measuring the room, the people, herself. I see it. I’ve seen it in players who’ve had to fight to get to the rink, who’ve had tobe twice as good just to belong. And I can’t stop thinking about how fragile she must feel under that polished exterior.
Murphy barks again, and the spell breaks. Dylan’s scowl deepens. Jacko gestures for everyone to hit the ice. I glance at Chloe, who’s scribbling something in her notebook. I can’t resist.
“Try not to be intimidated,” I say under my breath. “The guys bite, but mostly metaphorically.”
Her eyes flick up, and I swear there’s a flash of something, relief, maybe, or amusement. “Mostly metaphorically?” she repeats, as if testing me.
“Mostly,” I confirm, leaning close enough for the heat from my jacket to brush against her arm. “Though Murphy has been known to misinterpret metaphors as personal attacks.”
She snorts softly, shaking her head. “I’ll take my chances.”
The rest of the team moves past us, heading toward the ice for warm-ups. I watch her as she adjusts the notebook under her arm, shoulders tensing as if to brace for the chaos. I know that tension, I live it, feel it, wrestle with it every time I’m on the ice, but there’s something about Chloe that makes it different. Something that pulls at me in a way I can’t explain and definitely shouldn’t act on.
But I do.
“Catch you later?” I ask, voice casual, even though my stomach does a little flip. “I promise I won’t make metaphors about Murphy.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You’re offering a chat or a truce?”
“Both,” I say, grinning. “Depends on how competitive you are.”
She hesitates, pen paused mid-sentence. And then, finally, she nods. “Okay. Both.”
I can’t help the thrill that races through me. This isn’t supposed to feel like a small victory over a slapshot, but this,this is mine. Tentative, cautious, entirely unsanctioned by any rulebook but mine.
Training starts, and I slide onto the ice, feeling the familiar burn in my legs, the sharp scent of resin in the air. Chloe sets herself just behind the barrier, notebook tucked against her chest. I keep sneaking glances at her between drills, between coaching snippets from Jonno and Murphy’s increasingly sharp orders.
Every time her pen moves, I wonder if she’s writing about me. I know I shouldn’t care. I should be keeping my focus on the drills, the players, the rhythm of the rink. But my brain refuses to cooperate.
“Oi, Ollie! Eyes forward!” Murphy barks.
“Sorry,” I mutter, sliding past Dylan to intercept a stray puck. My teammates don’t notice my distraction, but Chloe does. She tilts her head, expression curious, almost as if she knows the conversation we’re having without words.
During a short water break, I skate over, leaning on the boards near her. The glass is cold against my palms. She looks up from her notebook, eyebrows raised.
“You’re unusually cheerful for someone sweating like a sauna,” she teases.
I grin, letting the banter roll off my tongue. “Some of us thrive under pressure. Others just look good pretending they’re thriving.”
Her gaze narrows, lips quirking. “Pretending, huh? That’s your strategy for the day?”
“Always,” I admit, tone light. “But don’t let the charm fool you. There’s a method behind the madness.”
She laughs again, and I notice the way her shoulders relax. Just slightly, but it’s enough. Enough to make me want to lean closer, to see if she’ll relax even more, to see what’s behind that guarded exterior.
The drills resume. I skate back to my position, but my mind keeps drifting. Every time she jots something down, every time she glances up and meets my eyes with the faintest smile, I feel it, the pull. I know I shouldn’t, not with Murphy glaring like a hawk, not with Jacko silently judging every movement, not with Dylan’s dark humour always lurking.
But I do.
Later, during a brief tactical huddle, I find myself next to her again, pretending to discuss positioning while secretly stealing snippets of her reactions to the drills. She’s scribbling furiously, occasionally glancing at the ice, occasionally glancing at me.
“You really are documenting everything,” I murmur, leaning close enough for her to hear.
“Is it that obvious?” she asks, not looking up.
