Chapter 8 Chloe
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHLOE
By the time I get back to my flat, my laptop is already glaring at me from the table like a judgmental ex.
Its lid slightly cracked open, screen dark, daring me to try again.
My notebook is there too, half-full of scribbles from the rink this morning.
Observations. Quotes. The things I’m supposed to be shaping into something coherent.
Instead, I toss my bag down, kick off my boots, and flop onto the sofa with a groan.
I should be writing. Murphy’s already suspicious of me just breathing the same air as his precious Raptors, and if I hand in fluff instead of sharp analysis, this whole assignment will go up in smoke.
And if it goes up in smoke, my dad, my mysterious, deep-pocketed, ridiculously controlling dad, will make sure it’s not just my career that burns.
But all I can think about is Ollie.
The way he leaned across that café table, like every word I said mattered. The way his grin came easy, but his eyes stayed sharp, curious, almost hungry.
God help me.
I pull my laptop closer, open the screen, and try to focus. My notes are full of half-formed sentences: Jacko penalty minutes, Murphy leadership presence, Dylan disciplined, Ollie.
Yeah. About that.
The page is littered with his name. My pen must have been drunk.
I rub my temples. Professional, Chloe. That’s the whole point. You’re not here to fall for another hockey player. Not again.
The memory of Sophie’s face flashes in my mind, her fury when she found out I’d tried to foolishly steal Murphy away from her, how she dressed me down in front of half the team, her hand curling possessively around his arm like I’d been a disease she needed to scrub off him.
The way I floundered around on centre ice like a fish out of water.
The humiliation still lingers, hot and raw.
And the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.
I had been chasing the wrong things. A headline.
A rush. That stupid thrill of knowing a man like Murphy had looked at me, just for a night.
To think I was stupid enough to ever imagine Murphy would choose me over Sophie.
It was a year ago now, and I’ve changed.
I’m no longer out to bag myself a star hockey-playing husband.
I can’t go back to that girl. I won’t.
My phone buzzes on the table, breaking me out of the spiral.
It’s Hannah, my oldest friend, the one person who always tells me the truth, even when it’s brutal.
I swipe to answer, a video popping up with her lounging in bed, face mask smeared on like she’s auditioning for a horror film. Or a remake of Mrs Doubtfire.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the North’s most notorious puck bunny,” she drawls.
“Lovely to see you too,” I deadpan, sinking back into the sofa.
“Don’t ‘lovely to see you’ me, Chloe Miller. What are you up to? Because I swear, I saw a photo on some Raptors fan account that looked suspiciously like you walking out of Bean & Brew this morning with a certain winger.”
My stomach drops. “Already?”
“Sweetheart, these fans could sniff out a scandal in a hurricane. So? Spill. Was it coffee, or was it coffee?” She wiggles her brows, peeling at the edge of her face mask.
I groan, covering my face with a cushion. “It was just coffee.”
“Uh-huh. And I just wear this gunk because I like scaring the neighbours.”
“Han, I mean it. It wasn’t a date. He invited me, and I went, but it was more like research. Professional.”
She snorts. “Right. Because professional research usually includes the way you’re biting your lip just saying his name.”
I drop the cushion, glaring. “Do you want the truth, or do you want to mock me?”
Her expression softens a little. “Truth.”
I exhale slowly. “I know what people think of me. I know what Murphy’s girlfriend thinks.
And she’s not wrong about the past. I did chase the wrong things.
I liked the idea of hockey players more than I liked hockey.
I thought being close to them gave me some kind of power?
Edge? I don’t know. But that’s not me anymore. ”
Hannah tilts her head. “And Ollie?”
I hesitate, fingers knotting in the fringe of the sofa throw. “Ollie’s different. He’s infuriating. Cocky. Always two seconds from a smirk. But he listens. Like, really listens. And when I talk, he doesn’t brush me off like I’m decoration in the locker room. It feels like…”
“Like he sees you?” Hannah supplies.
“Yeah.” My voice is quiet. “And that’s terrifying. Because I can’t afford to be that girl again. The one chasing a headline through someone’s bed sheets.”
She studies me for a long moment. “Then maybe don’t be. Maybe let yourself just be Chloe. Not Chloe the journalist. Not Chloe the puck bunny. Just you.”
My throat tightens. “And if I screw it up?”
“Then at least it’s your screw-up, love. Not theirs.”
I smile, small but genuine. “You always know how to make me feel like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer.”
“It’s a gift.” She peels off her face mask, wincing. “Christ, that burns. Anyway, got to rinse. Don’t let Mr. Winger distract you from filing copy, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I lie, and hang up.
Silence fills the flat again. I stare at the cursor blinking on my document. My fingers hover over the keyboard, itching to type something that isn’t his name.
But of course, the next line I write is:
Taylor skates like he’s got a secret.
And maybe he does.
By mid-afternoon, I’m restless. The words aren’t coming, the walls feel too tight, and Ollie’s grin keeps flashing in my head like a neon sign. Against my better judgment, I head back to the rink earlier than I need to.
The place is quieter now, the morning’s chaos simmered down. A few players linger, stretching or icing injuries, trainers bustling around. And then, across the ice, I spot him.
Ollie.
Stick in hand, skating lazy circles, sweat darkening his T-shirt. He looks up, and our eyes catch. The grin spreads instantly and I feel my pulse trip.
He doesn’t come over, thank God. That would be too obvious. But the way he watches me as I take my seat in the stands, the way his gaze lingers just a beat too long before he pivots back into motion, it’s enough. More than enough.
I pretend to jot down some fresh notes, but my pen keeps drifting, doodling spirals in the corner of the page. My mind keeps circling back to what Hannah said. About just being Chloe.
But who even is that, anymore?
All I know is, when Ollie’s eyes find mine across the rink, I feel closer to the old me than I have in years.
And maybe that’s the most dangerous thing of all.