Page 42 of Face Off
“Even if I am,” I mutter, “it doesn’t matter. The team… Murphy…”
“Murphy can shove it,” Hannah cuts in. “And as for the team, they’ll get over it. You’re allowed to be happy, Chloe. Allowed to want something for yourself.”
Her words land heavier than she probably means them to. Allowed. Like I’ve been waiting for permission all this time.
I pick at the seam of my pillow. “I told you I didn’t invite him in.”
Hannah softens. “That was smart. Take it slow. Make him work for it.” Her grin reappears. “Though from the look on your face, he wouldn’t exactly have had to twist your arm.”
My laugh is muffled but real. “You’re outrageous”
“Outrageously supportive, yes. Seriously, though, don’t overthink it. Just enjoy it. You deserve a little reckless happiness.”
We chat a few minutes more about nothing, her new flatmate, my latest article draft, before she signs off with a wink and a final, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Which, let’s be honest, isn’t much.”
When the screen goes black, I flop back onto the mattress, heart still racing. No matter how I spin it, the truth is the same. Last night wasn’t a mistake. It was a choice. And God help me, I’d choose it again in a heartbeat.
By the time I make it to the rink that afternoon, the smile has faded but not disappeared. I tell myself I’m here for work, notebook in hand, press badge clipped in plain sight. No one needs to know I’m still buzzing from a kiss, or that I spent the bus ride over replaying the way Ollie’s thumb brushed my cheek like I was something fragile and precious.
The arena smells like ice and sweat, the familiar cocktail of hockey. I settle into my usual spot near the boards, laptop balanced on my knees.
The players are running drills, Ollie among them, skating hard, hair damp under his helmet. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t need to. I feel the awareness between us like a live wire.
But it’s not just me imagining it. Every time I glance up, I catch him adjusting his stride slightly, favouring the hip just enough to hide the discomfort, jaw tight, eyes flicking in my direction. Protective. Tense. And aware.
I force myself to focus on my notes, typing descriptions of the drills, the way Dylan’s solid rhythm projects on everyone, Jacko’s size dominates the space with his calm direction, the energy Murphy and Ollie throw into sprints. But my words blur with thoughts of him. The curl of his lip when he’s frustrated, the way his hair sticks damp to his forehead, the thought of his lips on mine, last night.
Murphy notices, of course.
At first, it’s just muttering with a rookie as they skate back from a drill, the rookie trying to shush him. But then he peels off toward the bench and heads straight in my direction.
“Enjoying the view?” he sneers, tugging off one glove, smacking it against his thigh.
I keep my expression neutral. “Just doing my job.”
He snorts. “Funny, I thought your job was chasing headlines, not players.”
The words sting more than I want to admit. I straighten my shoulders. “You’d know all about chasing, wouldn’t you?”
His eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That I’m not interested, Murphy. Not in you, not in your girlfriend, not in anyone’s private business. I’m here because I work here. If you can’t deal with that, maybe you’re the one with the problem.”
The edge in my voice surprises even me. Murphy blinks, clearly not used to me pushing back. He opens his mouth but I cut him off.
“I’m not the puck bunny you think I am. I don’t care what story you’ve built up in your head. I’m not interested in you. Or Sophie. Or being part of whatever drama you’re cooking up. I’ve grown up and moved on. Get over yourself.”
The air between us crackles. For a beat, it’s just his scowl and my pulse pounding in my ears. Then someone calls his name from the ice, sharp, a warning.
Murphy mutters under his breath and stomps back toward the bench.
And then I notice Ollie again. He’s not intervening, he can’t, but his posture shifts subtly, angling just enough to block the space between me and Murphy without moving a muscle. Protective. Subtle. His hip twinges, and I see him bite back a wince, jaw tight, eyes flicking to me with concern he doesn’t verbalise. My chest aches.
He dives into the next drill, each movement sharper, faster, but with an undercurrent of awareness. Every so often, he glances up toward me, catching my eye and letting it linger long enough for a thrill to race down my spine.
I set my gaze firmly back on my laptop, typing notes with fingers that still tremble, trying to balance professionalism with awareness of his simmering protectiveness.
By the time practice winds down, I’m almost floating on a cloud of adrenaline, embarrassment, and anticipation. Ollie moves with careful precision, collects his gear, and gives me a small, private nod that says everything and nothing at all. Protective. Interested. But careful.
