Chapter 6 Chloe
CHAPTER SIX
CHLOE
The rink smells like burnt rubber and frozen air, sharp and electric, a scent that makes my pulse tick up. Somehow, after yesterday’s flurry of introductions and first impressions, today feels different.
I glance around, notebook tucked under my arm like a shield, scanning the players who are stretching or warming up.
I know most of them by sight, but it’s the way they move that gives them away, the precision, the confidence, the unspoken rhythms of a team that’s been together too long to bother with introductions.
And then I notice him.
Ollie.
He’s leaning casually against the glass, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the rink as if he owns it, or at least has full permission to navigate every inch without interruption.
I can’t tell if he’s looking at me or the drills, but I feel that inexplicable tug in my chest. The one that makes me suddenly hyper-aware of the notebook in my hands, the pen I’m twisting, the way I’m breathing.
He sees me glance and smiles. It’s a subtle flicker, but it’s enough to make my stomach flip.
I clear my throat, trying to look professional, to remind myself why I’m here. Reporting. Observing. Keeping notes. Not getting distracted. But the second I look back at him, leaning just a little too easily against the cold glass, I realise I don’t want to look away.
“Morning,” he says, voice casual, teasing, and it’s impossible not to grin.
“Morning,” I reply, tucking my notebook under my arm like it could protect me from whatever this is between us.
There’s a beat. A beat that stretches a second too long and makes the air around him feel warmer than it should.
“You survived yesterday,” he says, leaning closer.
I lift an eyebrow. “Just about.”
He grins. “It’s a start.”
I shake my head, feeling heat creep up my neck. How is it that someone I’ve known for less than twenty-four hours can make me feel simultaneously flustered and entirely at ease?
Training begins, and I move to the sidelines, notebook poised.
I’m supposed to focus on the drills, on player interactions, on the subtle dynamics that make a team click or implode.
And I try. I really do. But every time Ollie glides past the bench, every time he’s near the boards with his grin a little too confident, I find myself writing fewer notes and observing more.
It’s the way he moves, precise and effortless, yet always with a hint of playfulness.
The way he interacts with the team, giving instructions quietly, teasing here and there, he’s not just a player.
He’s someone who notices details, someone who reads people without making it obvious.
And I can feel the attention on me, even though he’s careful. Even though it’s subtle.
At the first water break, I take the chance to step closer to the boards. He’s leaning against the glass again, as if he’s been waiting for me.
“You’re unusually cheerful for someone who just spent twenty minutes running drills,” I tease, trying to keep my voice light and professional.
He raises an eyebrow. “Cheerful? That’s generous. I’m surviving. That counts as cheerful, right?”
I bite back a laugh, jotting a quick note in my book. “Surviving… check.”
He leans closer, voice just above a whisper, teasing, casual. “Don’t let Murphy hear you calling it ‘surviving.’ He might take it personally.”
I glance at him, pretending to jot another note. “I’ll risk it. Besides, I’m observing, not insulting.”
“Observing is dangerous,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Especially when the subject notices.”
I feel my cheeks heat and look down at my notes, trying to regain some semblance of control. It’s laughable. He’s charming, magnetic, impossible to ignore, and I’m a professional. I should be analysing the team, not wondering what his lips would look like if he smiled without teasing.
The drills resume. I hover at the edge, pen poised, eyes darting between Ollie and the other players.
I know it’s obvious, I can feel his eyes on me, can see the little shifts in his posture when our gazes meet.
It’s electric, subtle but undeniable, and I can’t quite reconcile my role as the observer with my growing fascination.
At one point, Murphy barks orders across the ice, Dylan grumbles something under his breath, and Jacko shouts a correction.
Ollie glances in my direction, just long enough for me to feel the weight of his attention.
I bite my lip, pretending to make a note, pretending my racing heart is purely professional curiosity.
During the next break, he slides over to me, leaning on the glass with that casual ease that makes my chest ache.
“You’re taking notes like a pro,” he says. “Or maybe you’re sketching escape routes. Hard to tell.”
I tilt my head, pen hovering above the page. “Maybe a little of both. Depends how dramatic the day gets.”
He grins, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’m hoping for drama. Makes life more interesting. Maybe a little excitement for the observer, too.”
My stomach flips. “Excitement?”
“Yes,” he says, leaning a little closer, his voice low. “You know, the kind you only get when someone keeps breaking your concentration.”
I feel my lips twitch, a smile forming despite my best efforts to remain composed. “And you do that often?”
“Only when it’s unavoidable,” he says, smirking, eyes flicking briefly to the other players. “Mostly unavoidable, in your case.”
I glance at him, heart rate accelerating. There’s a playfulness here, a confidence, a challenge, and I realise I want to meet it. Want to play along, even if it’s dangerous. Even if it’s foolish.
As the morning stretches on, we trade these quiet, teasing exchanges.
Nothing overt. Nothing scandalous. But every glance, every carefully measured word, feels charged.
I know the team doesn’t notice, or if they do, they don’t comment.
Ollie has a way of masking the attention he gives me, a careful balance of mischief and discretion.
During the final set of drills, I notice him skidding to a stop near the boards, giving a quick tip to Dylan, then shooting me a glance that’s just long enough for my stomach to twist. I pretend to jot another note, but I’m watching him more than the paper.
His laughter at a minor blunder, the way he ruffles his hair absentmindedly, the slight tilt of his shoulders, it’s magnetic.
And then, just as the session ends, he skates over to me. His grin is wide, and effortless. “Well, observer,” he says, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Survived the morning?”
I laugh softly, closing my notebook. “Barely,” I admit, recalling our first exchange. “But I think I’ve learned a lot.”
“Good,” he says, leaning just enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. “Learning is important. Even for pros like you.”
I roll my eyes playfully, heart still hammering. “I’m a fast learner.”
He smirks. “I think I might have noticed.”
There’s a pause, a small, charged moment where the air between us seems almost electric.
I want to linger, want to ask him to join me for that coffee we talked about.
I want to see if this spark is real or purely my imagination.
But the moment stretches just long enough that I feel the weight of reality pressing back in.
Dylan’s voice cuts through, calling the team together. Murphy and Jacko skate past, oblivious. And Ollie steps back, just enough to break the tension, though that sly smile lingers.
I tuck my notebook under my arm again, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Coffee later?” I ask, testing the waters, my voice steady, even though my chest feels like it’s doing somersaults.
He grins, leaning close enough for a whisper. “Definitely. I’ll hold you to it.”
As the rest of the team gathers around Dylan for the post-training debrief, I watch him, Ollie, blend back into the chaos, still magnetic, still impossibly charming, still making me feel things I shouldn’t. Things I can’t name yet.
And I realise, with a thrill I’m trying not to acknowledge, that this is just the beginning.
The slow burn, the teasing, the careful game of proximity and distance, it’s all starting. And I’m not sure if I’m ready for the fire it promises, but I know I can’t stop myself from leaning into it.
Because Ollie is a problem.
A delicious, infuriating, irresistible problem.