Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
OLLIE
The smell hits first. Sweat, tape, leather, and whatever ungodly thing Murphy left festering in his gear bag overnight. It’s the perfume of the Raptors’ locker room, and I swear it’s half the reason teams hate playing us at home.
“Christ, Ollie,” Murphy groans as I chuck my stick against the wall. “Can you not aim like a toddler for once?”
“Can you not whine like an old man?” I shoot back, grinning. “Oh wait, you’ve Finn at home. Forgot you’re officially a pensioner now.”
That earns me a chorus of “oooohs” from the guys. Dylan’s howling loudest, nearly falling off the bench as he wrestles with his skates. Jacko just shakes his head, grinning the way only a man with a four-year-old glued to his hip most nights can.
Murphy scowls, but Sophie’s name is on his lips before he can bite. “Careful, Ollie. You start chirping my home life, Sophie will have your hide. And she’s scarier than me.”
He’s not wrong. Sophie might be the only person on earth who could bench Murphy just by glaring.
I peel off my undershirt, chuck it in the laundry bin, and flop down onto the bench. My hip twinges as I move. Just a little catch. Nothing big. I mask it with a stretch, roll my shoulders, act casual. Nobody notices. Nobody ever notices.
“Oi, Ollie,” Dylan calls across the room. “Heard you had company last night.”
The boys whistle. I smirk, stretching out my legs, letting the noise wash over me. “What can I say? I’m a generous man. Community service, you know?”
“Bet she left early,” Murphy mutters, tying his laces with a frown.
“Bet she left satisfied,” I shoot back. That gets another roar from the guys.
Business as usual.
Only it won’t be, not for long. Because the GM warned us this morning. Some journalist is shadowing us for the season. Embedded. Up close, in our space, writing whatever stories they think sell.
Nobody likes it. We’ve all had enough bad headlines to last a career.
Murphy especially. He’s still bitter from the season before last when a certain reporter made his life hell, nearly cost him Sophie. Now he’s pacing, ranting about “keeping the sanctity of the locker room.”
“You lot can mess around all you want,” he says, pointing his stick like he’s coaching toddlers. “But mark my words, this journo’s going to twist everything.”
He cuts himself off, jaw tight.
“Jesus, Murph, give it a rest,” Dylan groans. “You sound like an old man yelling at clouds.”
Jacko throws a towel at Murphy’s head. “You’ve been paranoid since Finn was born. Relax. It’ll be fine.”
Murphy swats the towel away and glares. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s been stitched up by the press before. This shadow, whoever they are, they’ll dig. And when they do, I don’t want to see anyone here crying when their dirty laundry’s on the front page.”
That sets the room off.
“Dirty laundry?” Dylan repeats, grinning wickedly. “You sure you’re not talking about those socks you’ve had since junior?”
“Mate, if the journalist survives the smell of this room, we’ll be golden.”
“Maybe they’ll do an expose on your bedtime routine,” another chirps. “Sophie spoon-feeding you baby purée?”
Even Jacko, usually the sensible one, chuckles. “You’re wound up tighter than Lila’s bedtime routine.”
Murphy looks ready to throttle the lot of us. I stretch back against the bench, hands behind my head, soaking it in. “Who cares who it is? I can handle a reporter. Give them the cookie-cutter answers, flash a smile, move on. Easy.”
The guys groan. “Yeah, because you’ve got such a good track record of keeping your mouth shut,” Dylan says.
I grin, cocky as ever. “Exactly. I’m a professional.”
The room explodes with laughter.
After the skate, the ice clinging sharp in my lungs, I cut down the hall toward the physio room. Hip’s tight again. Needs a roll-out, maybe some ice before Coach gets suspicious.
That twinge’s been hanging around for months now.
Comes and goes, sharp one day, dull the next.
The kind of thing you don’t talk about. Because in this world, if you admit something hurts, it doesn’t just become your problem.
It becomes the team’s. The GM’s. The coach’s.
And then suddenly you’re sitting in the press box instead of skating on the top line.
I can’t risk it. Not when I’m this close to the career year I’ve been chasing. Not when the guys need me.
So, I roll it out. I ice. I hide the wince in a grin. And if it blows up later, well, that’s future Ollie’s problem.
I’m not paying attention when it happens.
A door swings open, and suddenly there’s a collision of bodies. Papers go flying. Coffee splatters the wall. A very Northern voice swears loud enough to echo.
“Bloody hell, watch where you’re going!”
I blink. My brain short-circuits. Because I know that voice. I know that face.
Chloe Miller.
Last year’s headline queen. Tabloid girl. The reason Murphy nearly torched his relationship.
She’s standing in front of me in a sharp little blazer, hair twisted up, eyes sparking fire as she glares at me like I’m gum on her shoe.
And my first thought isn’t what the hell is she doing here?
It’s Christ, she’s fit.
“Miller?” I hear my own voice, disbelieving. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She narrows her eyes. “You.”
That’s all. Just you. Like the word itself is contaminated.
I lean against the wall, folding my arms, fighting the grin that’s itching to spread. “So you’re the shadow? The big bad journalist sent to expose us?”
Her lips curve, sharp as a blade. “Don’t flatter yourself, Taylor. I’m here to cover the team, not your tragic Tinder history.”
The chirp hits its mark. The guys would love her for that line. But I don’t let it show. I just cock a brow, let my grin turn lazy. “Tragic? That’s not what your articles said last year.”
Her cheeks flush. Just faintly, but I see it. She hates that I see it.
And damn if that doesn’t make me want to poke harder.
“Relax,” I say. “I’m a dream to work with. Stick close, I’ll even give you the good quotes.”
She snorts. “Dream? You’re a nightmare in skates. The only quote I’m expecting is you begging me not to print the truth.”
That one stings. Not that I let her see. I just shrug, leaning closer, dropping my voice. “Careful, Miller. People usually get burned playing with fire.”
Her eyes lock on mine, steel blue and unflinching. “Funny. I was just about to say the same to you.”
We’re nose-to-nose in the corridor, trading barbs, when Coach’s voice barks from down the hall.
“Taylor! Leave her alone and get your ass to treatment!”
Chloe smirks, victory in her eyes. “Run along, winger boy. Don’t want your fans to see you limping.”
I spin away, but my pulse is racing, adrenaline buzzing like I’ve just scored a game-winner.
Because here’s the thing. Reporters don’t get under my skin. They never have.
But Chloe Miller? She might be the exception.
And if fate thinks sticking her in my orbit for a whole season is funny… Well, I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.
Bring it on.