Chapter 5 Ollie
CHAPTER FIVE
OLLIE
The early-morning light hits the Raptors’ stadium with that sharp, clinical brightness that makes every surface gleam, even the scuffed rubber of the locker-room floor.
I step in, coffee in hand, the warmth seeping into my fingers, and immediately catch the hum of activity, the familiar clatter of sticks, the squeak of skates against the polished ice, Murphy’s voice cutting through like a whip.
It’s Monday, and the team’s energy is already bordering on aggressive.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, letting it hit the back of my throat before I push the door open to the rink.
Jacko is already in his usual spot near the boards, stretching with a precision that borders on surgical.
Dylan is leaning against the bench, scowling at his phone.
And Murphy, well, Murphy is Murphy; coiled, ready to snap at any movement that even smells like a mistake.
And then I spot her.
Chloe is standing near the edge of the rink, notebook clutched in one hand, pen poised in the other, eyes darting between Murphy barking instructions and Jacko coaching some drills.
The way she’s balanced on the tips of her shoes, the faint crease of concentration between her brows, I swear I’ve seen that crease before on my own face when I’m trying not to laugh at some disaster on the ice.
“Morning,” I say, careful not to let the weariness of my voice show.
She glances at me, surprise flickering across her face before she smooths it into polite neutrality.
“Morning, Ollie.” Her voice is measured, professional, but there’s a tension underneath it I recognise.
The way she holds herself, a little too perfect, as if she’s trying to convince the world she belongs here, even though every muscle in her body is screaming that she doesn’t.
I grin, letting it linger a second too long. “First Monday back, and you look like you’re auditioning for some high-stakes espionage film. You sure you’re ready for this?”
Her lips twitch, almost a smile, but she shakes her head. “I’ve survived worse. Trust me, I know how to blend in.”
“You don’t look like a blend-in type.” I can’t help the teasing note in my voice, even as I step closer. “More like someone who makes everyone else blend around her.”
She freezes, pen hovering over her notebook. Then she laughs, it’s soft, sharp, and entirely unexpected. My chest tightens a little.
“Careful,” she says, eyes flicking back to Murphy, who is now shouting at Dylan to move faster. “If you keep talking like that, I might write it down.”
I tilt my head, trying not to show how much that makes me want to linger. “Write it down? Are you a reporter or a secret spy now?”
She shoots me a look that’s half exasperation, half amusement. “Maybe a bit of both. Depends who’s watching.”
I chuckle and take a step back, enough to let her breathe but not enough to leave her entirely.
She’s careful, calculating, always measuring the room, the people, herself.
I see it. I’ve seen it in players who’ve had to fight to get to the rink, who’ve had to be twice as good just to belong.
And I can’t stop thinking about how fragile she must feel under that polished exterior.
Murphy barks again, and the spell breaks. Dylan’s scowl deepens. Jacko gestures for everyone to hit the ice. I glance at Chloe, who’s scribbling something in her notebook. I can’t resist.
“Try not to be intimidated,” I say under my breath. “The guys bite, but mostly metaphorically.”
Her eyes flick up, and I swear there’s a flash of something, relief, maybe, or amusement. “Mostly metaphorically?” she repeats, as if testing me.
“Mostly,” I confirm, leaning close enough for the heat from my jacket to brush against her arm. “Though Murphy has been known to misinterpret metaphors as personal attacks.”
She snorts softly, shaking her head. “I’ll take my chances.”
The rest of the team moves past us, heading toward the ice for warm-ups.
I watch her as she adjusts the notebook under her arm, shoulders tensing as if to brace for the chaos.
I know that tension, I live it, feel it, wrestle with it every time I’m on the ice, but there’s something about Chloe that makes it different.
Something that pulls at me in a way I can’t explain and definitely shouldn’t act on.
But I do.
“Catch you later?” I ask, voice casual, even though my stomach does a little flip. “I promise I won’t make metaphors about Murphy.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You’re offering a chat or a truce?”
“Both,” I say, grinning. “Depends on how competitive you are.”
She hesitates, pen paused mid-sentence. And then, finally, she nods. “Okay. Both.”
I can’t help the thrill that races through me. This isn’t supposed to feel like a small victory over a slapshot, but this, this is mine. Tentative, cautious, entirely unsanctioned by any rulebook but mine.
Training starts, and I slide onto the ice, feeling the familiar burn in my legs, the sharp scent of resin in the air.
Chloe sets herself just behind the barrier, notebook tucked against her chest. I keep sneaking glances at her between drills, between coaching snippets from Jonno and Murphy’s increasingly sharp orders.
Every time her pen moves, I wonder if she’s writing about me. I know I shouldn’t care. I should be keeping my focus on the drills, the players, the rhythm of the rink. But my brain refuses to cooperate.
“Oi, Ollie! Eyes forward!” Murphy barks.
“Sorry,” I mutter, sliding past Dylan to intercept a stray puck. My teammates don’t notice my distraction, but Chloe does. She tilts her head, expression curious, almost as if she knows the conversation we’re having without words.
During a short water break, I skate over, leaning on the boards near her. The glass is cold against my palms. She looks up from her notebook, eyebrows raised.
“You’re unusually cheerful for someone sweating like a sauna,” she teases.
I grin, letting the banter roll off my tongue. “Some of us thrive under pressure. Others just look good pretending they’re thriving.”
Her gaze narrows, lips quirking. “Pretending, huh? That’s your strategy for the day?”
“Always,” I admit, tone light. “But don’t let the charm fool you. There’s a method behind the madness.”
She laughs again, and I notice the way her shoulders relax. Just slightly, but it’s enough. Enough to make me want to lean closer, to see if she’ll relax even more, to see what’s behind that guarded exterior.
The drills resume. I skate back to my position, but my mind keeps drifting.
Every time she jots something down, every time she glances up and meets my eyes with the faintest smile, I feel it, the pull.
I know I shouldn’t, not with Murphy glaring like a hawk, not with Jacko silently judging every movement, not with Dylan’s dark humour always lurking.
But I do.
Later, during a brief tactical huddle, I find myself next to her again, pretending to discuss positioning while secretly stealing snippets of her reactions to the drills. She’s scribbling furiously, occasionally glancing at the ice, occasionally glancing at me.
“You really are documenting everything,” I murmur, leaning close enough for her to hear.
“Is it that obvious?” she asks, not looking up.
“Obvious? Let’s just say it’s impressive.” I grin. “I’d be flattered if I were one of the subjects.”
Her pen pauses. She finally looks at me, eyes sparkling, and for a split second, the world outside the rink disappears. “Subjects… huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging like it’s casual. “You know. Profiles, observations, patterns. The whole detective-journalist vibe. You’re very methodical.”
Her lips twitch. “I try.”
“You succeed,” I whisper, just low enough for her to catch it without anyone else noticing.
She flushes, ever so slightly, and I nearly grin too wide. I skate away before I get too bold, forcing my focus back to the drills. But my chest feels lighter, like a weight I didn’t know I was carrying has shifted a fraction.
The morning stretches on. Every break, every pause, every glance exchanged across the rink feels like a game within the game. I’m careful, too careful sometimes, and other times I let my words brush a little too close to teasing, to flirtation, just enough to keep her guessing.
By the time the session winds down, sweat soaking my jersey and ice nipping at my cheeks, Chloe is still perched by the boards, notebook clutched like armour. I skate up beside her, leaning casually on the glass.
“You survived,” I say, voice teasing but warm.
“I did,” she replies, eyes glinting. “Barely.”
I laugh. “Barely counts. Barely is a start.”
She smirks. “You’re full of encouraging words this morning.”
“Only for the brave,” I say, letting my gaze linger on her a beat longer than I should. “And maybe for the curious.”
She laughs softly, a sound that makes something in my chest loosen, something that I’d spent years holding tight. And for a second, I wonder what it would be like if the team weren’t here, if the rink were empty, if we could just talk without glances over shoulders or the weight of unspoken rules.
But then Murphy calls for the final wrap-up, Dylan grumbles, and Jacko nods in his silent, approving way. Reality crashes back in, but I can’t shake the look Chloe gives me before she heads toward the locker room, brief, loaded, a promise of something unspoken.
I lean against the glass, watching her go. And I know that this, whatever it is, whatever we’re building quietly, carefully, is only going to get harder.
Because I’m loyal to the team. Loyal to my friends. Loyal to the code that says I don’t let distractions get in the way.
And Chloe is exactly the kind of distraction I should never let in.
Yet I can’t stop thinking about her.