Page 18 of Face Off
He doesn’t come over, thank God. That would be too obvious. But the way he watches me as I take my seat in the stands, the way his gaze lingers just a beat too long before he pivots back into motion, it’s enough. More than enough.
I pretend to jot down some fresh notes, but my pen keeps drifting, doodling spirals in the corner of the page. My mind keeps circling back to what Hannah said. About just being Chloe.
But who even is that, anymore?
All I know is, when Ollie’s eyes find mine across the rink, I feel closer to the old me than I have in years.
And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all.
CHAPTER NINE
OLLIE
Game nights always taste like metal.
The tang of sharpened blades, sweat trapped in padding, adrenaline buzzing so thick it coats the back of my throat. I love it. Strike that, I live for it. But tonight, there’s a weight pressing down harder than usual.
It’s not the opponent. We’ve played tougher teams. It’s not my hip, either, though it throbs in that dull, familiar way that reminds me I’m one bad hit away from a career-ending secret.
No, it’s the fact that two women are sitting in the stands, Sophie, clutching Finn like she’s built herself a fortress out of motherhood, and Chloe Miller, Tabloid Girl herself, scribbling notes with a smirk like she already knows where the bodies are buried.
And Murphy looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust.
“Why the hell did Sophie pick tonight?” he mutters, yanking at his gloves between shifts. His eyes keep darting to the glass, searching for her. Protective. Possessive. Terrified.
Dylan smirks from the bench, voice dripping with amusement. “Maybe she just wanted to watch you miss an open net for once.”
“Shut up,” Murphy snaps. “She could’ve stayed home.”
I lean forward, stick resting against my knees, hiding a grin. “Pretty sure that’s not how being in a committed relationship with the mother of your child works, mate. You impregnate ‘em, they own season tickets to your life.”
Jacko chimes in with his usual dry rumble, tugging at his helmet strap. “Least she brings snacks. Those brownies last week? Christ, I could’ve married her myself.”
Murphy shoots him a glare, but I catch the corner of Jacko’s mouth twitching. Classic.
And then, of course, Jacko adds, deadpan; “Baked goods from me this time. Banana bread’s in the dressing room for postgame. And I’ve put more protein bars in the cupboard too, Lila insisted we made the peanut butter ones.”
That perks everyone up. Even Dylan whistles. “Man, Jacko’s single-handedly keeping this team alive. Forget the trainers.”
I don’t mention that I saw Chloe snag a slice of banana bread earlier, perched at the media table with her notebook. She licked a crumb from her finger, and I nearly forgot which side of the bench I was supposed to sit on.
Focus, Taylor.
The ref’s whistle blares, and we’re back on.
By the first intermission, I’m buzzing. Two shots on goal, one assist, hip screaming at me but adrenaline drowning it out. The lads are loose, chirping, energy high.
Except Murphy.
He’s pacing the corridor near the tunnel, still half in his gear, helmet under his arm. I wander over, grabbing a paper cup of water, trying not to limp.
“She’s fine,” I say casually, nodding toward where Sophie’s seated, laughing at something Mia’s just said. Finn’s clutching a tiny foam finger like it’s Excalibur.
Murphy groans. “Don’t start, Ollie. You don’t get it.”
“Mate, I get it more than you think. Only difference is, your girl loves you. Mine-” I stop myself, catch it before it slips too far.
“Yours what?”
