Page 1 of Face Off
PROLOGUE
OLLIE
The roar of the crowd is a drug I can’t quit.
Every time I step onto the ice, the sound hits me in the chest, vibrating straight through my ribcage. Thousands of voices, all crashing together into one relentless wave. Some nights it feels like they love me. Other nights it feels like they’re waiting for me to fall. Either way, I give them what they want.
I skate faster. Hit harder. Play like my body isn’t quietly betraying me.
The puck drops. I’m already moving. I can hear Jonno barking from the bench, his voice cutting through the noise like a whip, but I don’t need directions. My body knows this game better than it knows sleep. Better than it knows touch.
I pick up the puck on the right wing and tear down the ice, a blur of black and red. The boards rattle as someone slams into them behind me, but I keep going. Eyes up. Stick tight. The defenseman thinks he can close me off, but I cut inside, sharp and fast. Pain shoots through my hip like fire, but I grit my teeth and push harder.
I make the pass. I hear the net ripple before I even look up. Goal.
The crowd explodes. My teammates crash into me, gloves smacking my helmet, shouts muffled by mouthguards. And I grin, because this is mine. This is the only place in the world I feel untouchable.
But the grin doesn’t reach my eyes.
Not tonight. Not when my hip still burns even as I skate back to the bench. Not when I know I’m hiding it again. The trainers will ask if I’m good. I’ll flash my best cocky smile and say what I always say:Never better, mate.
Never let them see the cracks.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, I’ve tallied two assists and a goal. The guys pile off the ice like we own the place, and I put on my show. High-fives, chirps, swagger in my stride. It’s second nature by now. Ollie Taylor, Raptors right-winger. Locker room clown. Ladies’ man. Nothing sticks to me, because I don’t let it.
Inside, though? Inside I’m holding on with white knuckles.
The locker room is chaos, as usual. Jerseys flying. Towels snapping. Someone’s blasting terrible EDM from a Bluetooth speaker. Dylan’s yelling about who stole his protein shake. Jacko’s sitting shirtless, calm as ever, scrolling on his phone like he’s meditating in the middle of a hurricane. Murphy’s across the room, already half-dressed, scowling like we lost instead of won.
“Boys!” I shout, throwing my arms wide. “Your hero has arrived.”
“Hero?” Dylan snorts. “Mate, you nearly got flattened in the second. I thought we’d have to scrape you off the ice.”
“Yeah, well, the ice is my natural habitat,” I shoot back, unbuckling my pads. “Graceful as a swan.”
“More like an overweight pigeon,” Jacko mutters without looking up. The room erupts in laughter.
I grin and flip him the bird. See? That’s my role. The cocky, untouchable winger. I play it so well nobody questions it anymore.
Not even Murphy, who still shoots daggers at me sometimes like he’s waiting for me to cross a line I already learned not to cross.
By the time I hit the showers, I’ve laughed until my stomach hurts. My teammates think I’m fine. They always do. Nobody notices the way I lean heavier on my right leg when the water scalds down my back. Nobody notices how long I stand there, letting the steam fog my head, trying to breathe through the ache that never goes away anymore.
Later, I end up at Murphy’s place with the rest of the boys, crowded into his living room with beers and takeaway boxes. Sophie’s perched on the arm of the sofa, rocking baby Finn in her arms while Murphy hovers close, looking every bit the overprotective dad. Jacko’s got Maya beside him on the rug, the pair of them helping little Lila build a wonky Lego tower that keeps collapsing every few minutes. She shrieks with laughter every time it topples, calling himBearlike he’s her personal superhero. Dylan’s holding court at the other end of the room, Mia tucked under his arm, rolling her eyes as he embellishes some locker room story that has everyone in stitches.
I lean back into the couch, beer in hand, pretending I’m just as relaxed as the rest of them. But my gaze keeps drifting to the window. To the darkness beyond the glass.
Because here’s the truth: I’m not untouchable.
I’m not unbreakable.
And if the wrong person looks too closely; if the trainers, or the coaches, or hell, even the fans realise how bad my hip is getting, it could all be over.
Hockey is all I’ve got. Without it, I’m just Ollie. And I don’t know who the hell that is. I’ve no family to speak of, my parents passed away a couple of years ago, leaving me alone. I have an aunt and a cousin, that’s it. When I moved here to join the team, it finally felt like I’d found a home. I’ve tried hard to make a place for myself here.
I take another swig of beer, paste the smirk back on my face, and crack a joke that makes the room laugh. That’s what they need from me. That’s all they’ll ever see.
But change is coming.
