Page 2 of Face Off
I can feel it, even if I don’t know what shape it takes yet.
Murphy’s muttering something to Sophie about a new media deal, about the Raptors being shadowed all season by a journalist for some human-interest feature. The guys groan when they hear it, already joking about behaving for the cameras.
Me? I just laugh. I’ve dealt with reporters my whole career. None of them have ever got past the show.
Whoever this one is, she won’t be any different.
At least, that’s what I think.
CHAPTER ONE
OLLIE
The smell hits first. Sweat, tape, leather, and whatever ungodly thing Murphy left festering in his gear bag overnight. It’s the perfume of the Raptors’ locker room, and I swear it’s half the reason teams hate playing us at home.
“Christ, Ollie,” Murphy groans as I chuck my stick against the wall. “Can you not aim like a toddler for once?”
“Can you not whine like an old man?” I shoot back, grinning. “Oh wait, you’ve Finn at home. Forgot you’re officially a pensioner now.”
That earns me a chorus of “oooohs” from the guys. Dylan’s howling loudest, nearly falling off the bench as he wrestles with his skates. Jacko just shakes his head, grinning the way only a man with a four-year-old glued to his hip most nights can.
Murphy scowls, but Sophie’s name is on his lips before he can bite. “Careful, Ollie. You start chirping my home life, Sophie will have your hide. And she’s scarier than me.”
He’s not wrong. Sophie might be the only person on earth who could bench Murphy just by glaring.
I peel off my undershirt, chuck it in the laundry bin, and flop down onto the bench. My hip twinges as I move. Just a littlecatch. Nothing big. I mask it with a stretch, roll my shoulders, act casual. Nobody notices. Nobody ever notices.
“Oi, Ollie,” Dylan calls across the room. “Heard you had company last night.”
The boys whistle. I smirk, stretching out my legs, letting the noise wash over me. “What can I say? I’m a generous man. Community service, you know?”
“Bet she left early,” Murphy mutters, tying his laces with a frown.
“Bet she left satisfied,” I shoot back. That gets another roar from the guys.
Business as usual.
Only it won’t be, not for long. Because the GM warned us this morning. Some journalist is shadowing us for the season. Embedded. Up close, in our space, writing whatever stories they think sell.
Nobody likes it. We’ve all had enough bad headlines to last a career.
Murphy especially. He’s still bitter from the season before last when a certain reporter made his life hell, nearly cost him Sophie. Now he’s pacing, ranting about “keeping the sanctity of the locker room.”
“You lot can mess around all you want,” he says, pointing his stick like he’s coaching toddlers. “But mark my words, this journo’s going to twist everything.”
He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
“Jesus, Murph, give it a rest,” Dylan groans. “You sound like an old man yelling at clouds.”
Jacko throws a towel at Murphy’s head. “You’ve been paranoid since Finn was born. Relax. It’ll be fine.”
Murphy swats the towel away and glares. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s been stitched up by the press before. This shadow, whoever they are, they’ll dig. And whenthey do, I don’t want to see anyone here crying when their dirty laundry’s on the front page.”
That sets the room off.
“Dirty laundry?” Dylan repeats, grinning wickedly. “You sure you’re not talking about those socks you’ve had since junior?”
“Mate, if the journalist survives the smell of this room, we’ll be golden.”
