Page 72 of Face Off
Ican feel the storm before I even step into his office.
The air is thicker here, heavier, like the silence has teeth. His assistant won’t meet my eyes as she ushers me through the double glass doors, and that’s how I know this is going to be bad.
My father doesn’t look up when I walk in. He’s behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear, expression flat and cold in a way that makes the knot in my stomach tighten. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. The clipped efficiency of his words is enough to gut whoever’s on the other end.
I hover, clutching the strap of my bag like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered.
Finally, he hangs up, sets the phone down with surgical precision, and lifts his gaze to me.
“Close the door.”
Three words, and I’m sixteen again, caught sneaking out, bracing for the lecture that always comes. My pulse hammers. I do as he says, the soft click sounding far too loud.
“Sit.”
I lower myself into the leather chair opposite his desk, spine stiff. He steeples his fingers, and studies me like I’m a puzzle missing half the pieces.
“You realise the position you’ve put me in?” he says at last. His tone isn’t raised, but it slices sharper than if he’d shouted.
My throat dries out. “Dad, I…”
“Don’t.” He cuts me off with a flick of his hand. “You were caught. In the showers. With Ollie Taylor. One of the best wingers on my payroll.”
My chest squeezes. “He’s not on your?—”
“He is,” he snaps, and the veneer cracks just enough to show the fury underneath. “Every contract on that team exists because of my money. You think Taylor’s career survives without me? You think your reckless little stunt goes unnoticed?”
I flinch. “It wasn’t like that.”
His eyes narrow, cold and assessing. “Then explain it. Explain why you’ve once again found yourself on your knees for a player like some cheap puck bunny. First Murphy. Now Taylor. You’ve made yourself a joke. You’ve made me a laughing stock.”
The words land like a slap. My cheeks burn, shame and anger tangling until I can barely breathe.
“You don’t know what’s between me and Ollie. What we have.”
“I know exactly what’s between you,” he spits. “Lust. Impulse. The same lack of control that’s dogged you since you were a teenager. And you expect me to clean it up. Again. Every damn time, you bring the drama. It’s like you can’t control yourself.”
My stomach twists, nausea clawing at me. I grip the arms of the chair, nails digging in. “It’s not like it was with Murphy.”
His laugh is humourless, scathing. “No? You spread your legs for him, too. Do you think I didn’t hear about it? Do you think people don’t talk? This isn’t a new problem, this is the kind ofshit I’ve had to deal with since you were in high school. One jumped up piece of shit after another.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I won’t cry in front of him. Not when he’s looking at me like I’m filth.
“I was young. Well, immature.” I whisper.
“You were stupid,” he corrects, voice flat. “And you haven’t changed. Murphy hates you. He’s already filed a complaint to management about you shadowing the team. Do you have any idea the fire you’ve lit? The board wanted you gone weeks ago.”
My breath catches. “Then why am I still there?”
“Because I insisted,” he says, leaning forward, eyes like steel. “Because I told them if they cut you loose, I’d cut my sponsorship. I put my neck on the line for you, Chloe. And this is how you repay me? By dragging Taylor into your mess?”
His words pummel me, one after another, until I’m hollow.
“You’ve let me down,” he continues, quieter now, which is somehow worse. “I expected better. You’ve had every opportunity handed to you, every door opened, and you choose to squander it chasing hockey players. You’re nothing more than a liability.”
The silence after is suffocating. My throat works, but no sound comes out. He’s reduced me to rubble with surgical precision, just like always.
Finally, I find my voice. It comes out cracked, fragile. “I love him.”
