Page 32 of Face Off
Ollie: Right. Entire arm’s length. Maybe two.
Me: Exactly.
Ollie: So… coffee?
I laugh out loud. My neighbours probably think I’ve lost it. Coffee with him again would be reckless. But my fingers type before my brain catches up.
Me: Fine. But this time, I pick the place.
The café I choose isn’t our usual spot near the rink. It’s tucked in a side street, quieter, more anonymous. If anyone from the team sees us, they’ll think nothing of it. That’s what I tell myself as I slide into a booth and check my reflection in the window, pretending I don’t care how my hair looks.
Ollie arrives ten minutes late, cap pulled low, grin cocky. “What’s this then? A secret hideout?”
“Some of us don’t enjoy being the centre of attention,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“You wound me. Attention keeps me alive.” He shrugs off his jacket, and I notice the stiffness in his movement, the way he masks a wince. My eyes narrow before I can stop them.
“You okay?”
“Course.” He waves it off, sliding into the seat opposite. “Just sore from training. Jonno had us skating suicides till my lungs begged for mercy.”
He says it so breezily, but I catch the way his leg shifts under the table, like he’s trying to find a position that doesn’t ache. My reporter brain wants to dig, connect the dots, ask the follow-ups. But something softer in me pulls back. He’ll tell me when he wants to. If he wants to.
Instead, I tilt my head. “So. You’ve decided I’m trouble?”
His grin widens. “Undeniably. Certified chaos. Should come with a warning label.”
I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously charming,” he counters.
“Ridiculously arrogant.”
“Yet here you are, meeting me for coffee. Again.” He leans forward, eyes locked on mine, playful but edged with something hotter. “Which means either you secretly like arrogant men, or you like me.”
I open my mouth, close it again. My cheeks burn. Damn him.
“You’re insufferable,” I manage.
“And you’re not denying it,” he says, smug.
I want to throttle him. Or kiss him. Possibly both.
We fall into easier conversation after that. He tells me a story about a teammate mixing up protein powder with pancake mix, ending in what he describes as “the saddest, densest pucks ever masquerading as food.” I laugh until I nearly choke, and he looks so proud of himself it makes me melt.
For a moment, I forget about Murphy’s threats, about journalistic distance, about everything but the man in front of me. He’s quick, witty, endlessly entertaining. And under all that bravado, there’s something vulnerable he doesn’t want anyone to see.
I get a glimpse of it when I ask about the season. “You think you’ll re-sign next year?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
His grin falters. Just a flash, there and gone. “Dunno. Long way off.”
“But you’ve been with The Raptors for years,” I press gently. “You’re Ollie Taylor. Fan favourite. Why wouldn’t they keep you?”
He shrugs, eyes dropping to his coffee. “You know how it is. Fresh blood, younger guys coming up. Old bodies wear down.” He clears his throat, forces a laugh. “Anyway, who wants to talk contracts over cappuccinos?”
I watch him carefully. He’s hiding something. The stiffness, the evasiveness, it clicks into place. His hip. He’s hurting, and he doesn’t want anyone to know.
“Ollie…” I start, soft.
