Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
CHLOE
The stain on my notebook looks like a bruise. Coffee, seeping into the paper, bleeding across the page. I press my thumb against it until the damp blurs my skin. Because I need the reminder, bruises fade. Stains stay.
And I can’t afford either. Not here. Not with Ollie Taylor’s smirk still echoing down the corridor.
The Raptors’ locker room hums with noise when I step inside. Too loud. Too hot. Too sharp.
They don’t hide their reaction. Heads turn, eyes narrow, voices dip and swell. Every inch of concrete and steel vibrates with male ego, and I’m the foreign body in the middle of it.
Samuel Murphy makes sure I feel it. His glare is a fist, his silence louder than any insult. He doesn’t need to say my name, the set of his jaw does it for him. I am the intruder. The problem. The reminder of a scandal he almost didn’t recover from.
I look past him, deliberate. My father’s money might be the reason I’m here, but Murphy doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.
Ollie’s the one who breaks the tension.
“Careful, guys,” he drawls from his stall, undershirt clinging damp to his shoulders. “She’s probably here to rate our locker-room manners. Ten out of ten for charm so far, Murph.”
The laugh is quick, too quick. It gets a couple of stick taps, but it isn’t careless. I see the way his eyes cut sideways to Murphy before he grins back at me. He’s pushing a line, testing the room, testing me.
Murphy’s voice is flat, dangerous. “Shut it, Ollie.”
“Just saying.” Ollie shrugs, stretching out long legs like he owns the bench. “Wouldn’t want the Raptors’ image tarnished by your bedtime stories.”
More laughter, jagged this time. Murphy rises half an inch before Jacko’s hand clamps his shoulder. Calm, immovable.
“Enough,” Jacko says.
The air eases, fraction by fraction. Murphy sits, still glowering. Ollie pretends not to notice, spinning tape between his fingers like it’s nothing.
But I see it. The tension coiled under the banter, the guilt flashing quick as lightning in his expression. He’s defending his teammate, but he’s also looking at me. Too much. Too often.
He shouldn’t. He knows it. And that’s exactly why I can’t let myself react. I know his loyalty is with his teammate.
I take my place near the wall, notebook open. Professional. Detached.
The Raptors lace skates, snap helmets, and sling towels. Bodies move around me, heat radiating, the smell of sweat and leather heavy in the air. They talk over each other, banter sharp enough to sting.
But the rhythm shifts every time Ollie’s voice cuts through. He’s louder, brighter, deliberately casual. And yet his eyes track Murphy, always checking the temperature, always aware.
I write in neat strokes. Player dynamic: protective. Hierarchy reinforced.
I don’t add the rest: Ollie Taylor can’t stop looking at me.
On the ice, chaos reigns.
Coach’s whistle pierces through crashes of bodies, shouts, the scrape of blades carving across the surface. I sit on the bench, scribbling observations. Dylan stays silent as stone. Jacko herds with calm force. Murphy throws checks like he’s exorcising demons.
And Ollie plays like fire. Fast, reckless, too much edge. Every time he slams into the boards, my pulse jumps. Not because I care. Because I can see the way he favours his left hip. Subtle. Small. Hidden under bravado. But it’s there.
He crashes right in front of me, mask askew, breath steaming. “Enjoying the view, Miller?”
I arch a brow. “Looks painful.”
“Pain’s temporary. Goals are forever.” He flashes that grin, but it falters for a half-second. Not from me. From the way Murphy skates past, eyes flinty.
“Don’t write that down,” Ollie warns.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Liar.”
He pushes off before I can answer, back into the drill, cutting tight, fast, dangerous. The grin stays, but I saw the conflict. He wants to needle me. He also wants to protect Murphy. He can’t do both.
Not without tearing himself in two.
After practice, the locker room steams. Showers hiss, towels snap, laughter bounces. And Murphy doesn’t speak to me. Doesn’t look at me. Dylan laces boots with measured silence. Jacko offers a nod, it’s an acknowledgement, nothing more.
And Ollie?
He drops into the stall nearest mine, sprawling deliberately. Too close. Too casual. Like he doesn’t know Murphy’s watching from the corner of his eye.
“So,” he says, towel looped loose around his neck. “Day one. Still standing?”
I don’t miss the quick flicker of his glance toward Murphy. Calculating. Checking how far he can push.
I match his grin with steel. “Better than your shooting percentage.”
The room erupts. Even Jacko cracks half a smile. Ollie laughs with them, his hand pressed to his chest. “Cruel. But fair.”
But when the noise dies down, I catch the shift. His eyes darken, and his jaw tightens. For the briefest second, I see the weight he’s carrying. Not just attraction. Not just banter.
Loyalty. Guilt. Conflict.
And then Murphy snaps.
“You think this is funny?” His voice cuts across the chatter, sharp enough to sting. The room freezes. He stands, water dripping from his hair, towel slung low, chest rising hard. His glare pins me, then swings to Ollie. “You’re defending her? After everything she pulled? After Sophie?”
Ollie is up before I can blink, not with fists, but with presence. He plants himself half a step forward, broad shoulders blocking the worst of it.
“Enough, Murph,” he says, tone steady but tight. “She’s not here for you.”
The silence shudders. Murphy’s nostrils flare, fists flexing. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to swing, and Ollie’s jaw sets like he’s ready to take it if it means keeping Murphy from doing something worse.
Then Jacko’s voice cuts low, final. “Sit down, both of you.”
Murphy obeys, barely. Ollie lingers, then drops back to the bench, breathing hard. The chatter slowly creeps back, although strained at the edges. I keep my pen moving, though my hand trembles as I try to school my nerves.
The team filters out in waves, boots echoing down the tunnel, laughter fading. I walk alone, notebook hugged tight, heels clicking against concrete. But then footsteps echo behind me. Light, quick. Familiar.
“Oi, Miller.”
I turn. Ollie’s there, hair still damp, kit bag slung over one shoulder. He’s close enough that the corridor feels smaller, the air charged.
“What do you want, Taylor?” I keep my voice even, professional.
He runs a hand through his hair, then drops it fast, restless. “Just don’t let Murph get to you, yeah? He’s protective.”
“He’s hostile.”
“He has reason.” The words bite out before he can stop them. Then his jaw tightens, regret flashing. “Look, I’m not saying…hell, I’m not even sure what I’m saying.”
For a second, the mask slips. He looks at me like he wants to confess something, something real, heavy, dangerous. Like he wants to explain why his gaze keeps snagging on me, why he keeps stepping in, why every joke lands sharper than it should.
But then he shakes his head, shutters slamming back in place. “Forget it.”
And he strides past, leaving the scent of soap and ice in his wake.
I stand there, notebook pressed hard to my chest, heart pounding with words unsaid.
Ollie Taylor is breaking rules I didn’t even know existed.
And the worst part?
I don’t think I want him to stop.