Page 3 of Face Off
“Maybe they’ll do an expose on your bedtime routine,” another chirps. “Sophie spoon-feeding you baby purée?”
Even Jacko, usually the sensible one, chuckles. “You’re wound up tighter than Lila’s bedtime routine.”
Murphy looks ready to throttle the lot of us. I stretch back against the bench, hands behind my head, soaking it in. “Who cares who it is? I can handle a reporter. Give them the cookie-cutter answers, flash a smile, move on. Easy.”
The guys groan. “Yeah, because you’ve got such a good track record of keeping your mouth shut,” Dylan says.
I grin, cocky as ever. “Exactly. I’m a professional.”
The room explodes with laughter.
After the skate, the ice clinging sharp in my lungs, I cut down the hall toward the physio room. Hip’s tight again. Needs a roll-out, maybe some ice before Coach gets suspicious.
That twinge’s been hanging around for months now. Comes and goes, sharp one day, dull the next. The kind of thing you don’t talk about. Because in this world, if you admit something hurts, it doesn’t just becomeyourproblem. It becomes the team’s. The GM’s. The coach’s. And then suddenly you’re sitting in the press box instead of skating on the top line.
I can’t risk it. Not when I’m this close to the career year I’ve been chasing. Not when the guys need me.
So, I roll it out. I ice. I hide the wince in a grin. And if it blows up later, well, that’s future Ollie’s problem.
I’m not paying attention when it happens.
A door swings open, and suddenly there’s a collision of bodies. Papers go flying. Coffee splatters the wall. A very Northern voice swears loud enough to echo.
“Bloody hell, watch where you’re going!”
I blink. My brain short-circuits. Because I know that voice. Iknowthat face.
Chloe Miller.
Last year’s headline queen. Tabloid girl. The reason Murphy nearly torched his relationship.
She’s standing in front of me in a sharp little blazer, hair twisted up, eyes sparking fire as she glares at me like I’m gum on her shoe.
And my first thought isn’twhat the hell is she doing here?
It’sChrist, she’s fit.
“Miller?” I hear my own voice, disbelieving. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She narrows her eyes. “You.”
That’s all. Justyou.Like the word itself is contaminated.
I lean against the wall, folding my arms, fighting the grin that’s itching to spread. “So you’re the shadow? The big bad journalist sent to expose us?”
Her lips curve, sharp as a blade. “Don’t flatter yourself, Taylor. I’m here to cover theteam, not your tragic Tinder history.”
The chirp hits its mark. The guys would love her for that line. But I don’t let it show. I just cock a brow, let my grin turn lazy. “Tragic? That’s not what your articles said last year.”
Her cheeks flush. Just faintly, but I see it. She hates that I see it.
And damn if that doesn’t make me want to poke harder.
“Relax,” I say. “I’m a dream to work with. Stick close, I’ll even give you the good quotes.”
She snorts. “Dream? You’re a nightmare in skates. The only quote I’m expecting is you begging me not to print the truth.”
That one stings. Not that I let her see. I just shrug, leaning closer, dropping my voice. “Careful, Miller. People usually get burned playing with fire.”
