Page 94 of Face Off
I shake my head, throat tight. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am a liability. But he doesn’t get to decide anymore.”
Her hand lands on mine, firm and grounding. “No. He’s wrong. You just need to stop letting him win in your head. And that, right there, was the first step.”
Later, in the locker room, I feel the weight of every eye on me. Coach’s brow furrows as he studies me, and I know Murphy’s been planting seeds. I open my mouth to defend myself, but before I can, Jacko steps forward.
“He’s fine,” Jacko says firmly. “He’s putting the work in every damn day. He’ll be back.”
The room stills. Jacko doesn’t raise his voice often, but when he does, people listen. Coach nods slowly, the tension in his jaw easing. “Alright. Keep it steady. Don’t overdo it. I’ll speak to Jonno and Mia, but I’ll roster you in.”
Relief pulses through me, sharp and unexpected. Jacko claps my shoulder as the team disperses, a quiet anchor when everything else feels like it’s falling apart.
By the time the rink empties, my body aches and my pride is raw. I limp down the corridor, every step dragging, and push through the side door into the night. The air is cold, biting against my sweat-soaked skin.
Chloe is there, leaning against my car, arms folded. The streetlight catches her hair, turns it gold. When she sees me, her expression cracks, not angry, not sharp, just weary.
I stop a few feet away, chest tight. “You waited.”
“Of course I did.”
The words unravel something in me. I move closer, and when her arms come around me, I fold into them, head against her shoulder, too exhausted to pretend anymore.
Her voice is soft against my ear. “You don’t lose yourself if you lose hockey.”
I whisper it because I can’t hold it in any longer. “If I lose hockey, I lose me.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, her hand cupping my jaw. “No. You just find the rest of you.”
The ache in my hip is nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I don’t know if I believe her yet. But the way she says it, the way she holds me like I’m worth something more than ice and skates, it’s the first time I want to try.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHLOE
The kettle clicks off, steam fogging the small kitchen window, and Ollie is already moving before I can stop him. He limps, careful but stubborn, pouring boiling water into my mug like nothing’s wrong. His T-shirt is rumpled, hair sticking up at the back, and still he’s fussing over how I take my tea, sliding the spoon around until the colour’s just right.
“Sit,” I tell him, half exasperated, half in awe.
He waves me off, one corner of his mouth quirking. “I can handle a bloody kettle, Chlo.”
I bite back the reminder that handling a kettle and rehabbing a torn hip flexor aren’t exactly the same thing. Instead, I let him hand me the mug, warmth from the ceramic seeping into my palms. He collapses onto the sofa beside me with a small wince he pretends I don’t see. The telly hums quietly in the background, but it’s just noise.
This is our rhythm now. Me fussing over his physio schedule, making sure he stretches when he’s meant to, eats what Mia recommended, doesn’t sneak out to the gym for extra reps. Him fussing over everything else, my tea, what I’ve eaten,whether I’m getting any sleep. It’s a domestic sort of tug-of-war, unspoken and fragile, and I don’t hate it.
But beneath it, there’s the same constant dread. Every time his hand brushes mine when he passes me the remote, every time I see him grit his jaw against pain, I wonder how much longer we can keep this bubble intact. The rink waits for both of us, and the rink is no bubble.
By the time we get there, the hum of everyday chaos is already in full swing. Skates clatter against benches, pucks ring off boards, voices echo down the corridor. Ollie heads toward the treatment wing with his crutches and a tight nod at the lads he passes. Some of them nod back. Some don’t.
I sling my satchel over my shoulder and follow, notebook already in hand. The habit steadies me, pen against paper, capturing what I see. That’s what I’m supposed to be here for. To tell the story. Not to react when two rookies glance my way and whisper behind their gloves. Not to snap when Murphy strides past, not even sparing me a look, his laughter bright and easy for the boys around him while the air chills in his wake.
I keep my eyes on Ollie through the glass window of the physio room. He’s grimacing while Mia corrects his posture on the resistance bands. My pen moves quickly, words forming without me even thinking:Resilience isn’t loud. It’s repetition. Quiet. A man choosing, again and again, to push against the pain instead of giving in to it.
That’s what I want to capture, not gossip, not whispers. The fight behind the curtain. The man no one gets to see, except me.
“Still scribbling, I see.”
The voice makes my stomach jolt. Sophie.
She’s standing a little off to the side, hair scraped into a bun, jumper sleeves rolled to her elbows and Finn balanced on her hip. For a second, I brace for the usual icy dismissal and thinlyveiled barbs. Instead, her gaze flicks between me and the physio room.
