Page 98 of Face Off
When Jonno finally releases me, I limp toward the changing rooms, water bottle clutched like a lifeline. The ache in my hip isn’t sharp, not like the night it went, but it’s heavy, constant, reminding me with every step that I’m fragile. Weak. Replaceable.
Jacko’s already there, kit bag tossed at his feet, scrolling his phone like he owns the place. He glances up when I come in, grin tugging one side of his mouth. “You look like you’ve wrestled a bear.”
“Feels worse,” I mutter, dropping onto the bench with a groan. My thigh seizes and I bite back a curse.
Jacko puts the phone away, gives me a once-over. “You’re pushing harder. That’s good.”
“Or stupid,” I fire back, pulling at my laces even though I’ve got no skates on, just trainers. My hands need something to do, or they’ll shake. “Feels like I’m hanging on by a thread half the time.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not. You’re putting the work in. Everyone sees it.”
I laugh, harsh. “Doesn’t matter if they see it. If management decides my hip’s a liability, I’m done. Contract’s up, career over. That’s it.”
Jacko frowns. “They’re not gonna cut you loose.”
“How do you know that?” The words rip out sharper than I intend, but I can’t stop. My chest feels tight, panic bubbling just under my skin. “How do you know I’m not just dead weight now? If they cut me, I don’t know who I am without this. Hockey’s all I’ve got.”
The locker room goes quiet after I spit it out. The kind of quiet that feels like confession, ugly and raw.
Jacko doesn’t flinch. He sits back, chewing on the words like he’s letting them settle before he answers. “You’re Ollie Taylor. Best mate, pain in my arse, guy who can’t cook to save his life. You’ve got more than hockey, whether you believe it yet or not. But you’ll get your contract renewed. Trust me.”
I want to. I want to believe him. But the fear claws harder because I don’t know if I can.
What I don’t notice is the figure paused just beyond the corner of the doorway, unseen. Coach. His footsteps retreat a second later, silent.
The locker room isn’t empty for long. A few rookies tumble in, voices loud, still buzzing from drills. Murphy’s among them, towel slung over his shoulder.
My spine stiffens. The old tension rises, weeks of digs, of smirks, of him making me the punchline.
But this time, something different happens. He tosses his towel onto the bench, looks straight at me, and smirks, but not cruelly. Almost awkwardly.
“Well, look who’s still alive after Jonno’s torture session.”
A couple of rookies chuckle.
Murphy rolls his eyes at them. “Don’t laugh, you lot. You try coming back from a busted hip and still look like that.” Hegestures at me, mock-exasperated. “Ollie’s been grafting harder than any of you.”
The rookies blink, caught off guard. So am I.
Murphy claps one of them on the back. “You’d do well to follow his lead instead of snickering in the corridors.”
It’s not an apology. It’s not warm, or gentle. But it’s the closest thing I’ve heard from him in months. And the stunned silence that follows tells me the rest of the room clocked it too.
My throat tightens. I’m not ready to forgive him. Not by a long shot. But maybe Sophie’s words finally sank in. Maybe the tide’s turning.
By the time I make it back to the flat, every muscle in my body’s vibrating with exhaustion. I barely get the door open before Chloe steps inside, arms full, takeaway in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, her bag slung heavy on her shoulder.
“You look like death,” she says cheerfully, brushing past me toward the kitchen.
“Feel it.” I toe off my trainers and follow, watching her set everything down.
She glances back, eyes narrowing when she sees how stiffly I’m moving. “Sit.”
I do, dropping onto the sofa with a grunt. My hip throbs, demanding attention.
Chloe disappears into the bedroom, then returns with a small jar. She waves it in the air like a prize. “Mia gave me this. Balm for your hip.”
My brows rise. “And since when are you qualified to play physio?”
