Page 33 of Face Off
But he shakes his head sharply, masking it with another grin. “Nah. Not today. Let’s keep it light, eh? You tell me something embarrassing instead. Balance the scales.”
He deflects and I let him. For now.
Later that afternoon, I drop by the rink to check in with Jacko for a quote. I slip into the corridor just as practice ends, the players streaming past me in various states of exhaustion and sweat. Murphy spots me instantly, his face souring like I’ve crawled out of the woodwork.
“You again?” he mutters.
“Don’t look so thrilled,” I shoot back, keeping my tone breezy.
Murphy doesn’t bother hiding his scowl. “Careful, Chloe. You get too close, you’ll end up in places you don’t belong.”
His words sting more than I want to admit. He doesn’t trust me. Maybe he never will.
Ollie emerges behind him, towel slung around his neck. Our eyes meet for half a second, quick, secret. He smirks, subtle, a spark only for me. Then he’s gone, swallowed by the team.
My stomach flips again. This is dangerous.
That night, my phone buzzes again.
Ollie: Survived practice. Barely. Hero points?
Me: You don’t get points for doing your job.
Ollie: Harsh. Thought you were supposed to be my biggest fan.
Me: Journalists don’t do “fan.”
Ollie: Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.
My cheeks burn, and I curse at the screen. He’s impossible. And yet I type back. Again.
Me: You’re insufferable, Taylor.
Ollie: And yet you can’t quit me.
I laugh despite myself, dropping the phone onto my chest. He’s right. I should quit him. Walk away before this spins out of control.
But then I think of the way he almost kissed me, the way he hides his pain behind jokes, the way he makes me feel like the only person in the room when he looks at me.
And I know I’m already in too deep.
The following days blur into a strange rhythm. Mornings spent writing, afternoons chasing quotes, evenings trading messages with Ollie that grow increasingly reckless. He calls me “trouble” so often it starts to feel like a nickname. I call him “coward” whenever he ducks out of saying what he really feels.
We meet for coffee twice more, always in out-of-the-way cafés where no one will see. Each time the banter sharpens, the silences thicken, the touches get bolder. A hand brushing mine as he passes me the sugar, a knee bump under the table that lingers a beat too long.
I’m half-convinced one of us will cave, lean across the table and finish what we started that night outside the pub. But he doesn’t. And neither do I.
And yet every time we part, I walk away buzzing, skin alive, heart pounding.
I tell myself I’m just gathering material. Observing. Documenting.
But deep down, I know better.
The weekend rolls around, and I find myself outside the pub again. This time, I don’t go in. I linger across the street, watching through the window as the team laughs, drinks, lives in their little world. Murphy’s loud, Dylan steady, Jacko calm. Mia leans against Dylan, Sophie’s perched by Murphy, and little Lila is once again the star attraction, twirling around the table with baby Finn cradled like a doll.
And there’s Ollie.
He’s laughing, head thrown back, glass in hand. He looks happy. Belonging. A part of something bigger.
