Chapter 14 Chloe
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHLOE
The city sun feels too bright when I step out of the studio office.
My heels click sharply on the pavement, the rhythm of each step echoing in my ears, but it doesn’t drown out the chatter of my own thoughts.
My story’s gone live this morning, and the feedback is rolling in already, retweets, notifications, a smattering of comments from fans of the team.
Mostly positive. Sharp. Objective. Just like I’d intended.
And yet, I can’t shake the memory of Ollie’s glance from last night. That tiny wink, that mischievous grin. A single gesture, and I feel like he sees me, not “Tabloid Girl,” not my father’s pawn, but me.
I scroll through my phone, nearly dropping it when a message pops up.
Ollie: “Ten out of ten on professionalism. But that doesn’t mean I can’t notice other stuff.”
I blink. Smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Chloe: “Other stuff? Care to elaborate, or is this top-secret hockey intelligence?”
Ollie: “Depends. You buying coffee? I might have intel to share in person.”
My pulse skips. Coffee again? It’s fast, casual, but every text he sends is a little spark of something I’m trying not to fan into a flame. And yet, why do I want to?
Chloe: “Intelligence always worth sharing. Where?”
Ollie: “Corner café, 4 p.m. I’ll save you a table.”
I tuck the phone in my bag, shaking my head as I walk. Calm and switched on. That’s what I need to be. Sharp. Discreet. Objective. Not a woman distracted by a hockey player with reckless charm and too-bright eyes. God, those eyes, they’re a shade of green I’ve seen before.
But somehow, Ollie makes that rule feel impossible.
The café is warm when I step inside, aromatic with roasted beans and pastries lined like soldiers on the counter.
I spot him immediately, the usual confident posture slightly off-balance, a hand on his hip as he leans against the table, stretching it just a little to ease some tension.
The left side of his gait is subtle, but I notice.
Always. His hip. He hides it well during games, but in the quiet of a café, the tilt of his shoulder, the slight lean, gives him away.
“Chloe.” His grin lights up the space. Even with the slight wince as he shifts his weight, he’s magnetic.
“Taylor,” I say, sliding into the seat opposite him, trying to keep my tone even.
He raises a brow, mock-offended. “Just Taylor? No Ollie?”
“Professional Chloe,” I reply smoothly. “Can’t be too familiar.”
His lips twitch in amusement. “Fair. Professional Chloe. But you’re still the same one who winked at the pen in my hand yesterday, right?”
I flush slightly, laughing despite myself. “That was observation.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, pretending to jot notes in the air, like he’s a journalist interrogating me. “Observation. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest betrays me. He knows exactly what he’s doing. And I can’t stop letting him.
We order coffees. I take a small sip, the heat settling in my hands. Ollie does the same, wincing slightly as he shifts his weight again.
“You’re favouring it,” I point out, tilting my head. “Left hip?”
He freezes for a heartbeat, like he wasn’t expecting anyone to notice. Then he grins, the mask sliding back into place. “Justa an old injury. Nothing major. Just a little reminder that I’m not invincible.”
I study him, curiosity sharp. There’s a vulnerability in that tiny admission, fleeting but real. “Does it bother you during games?”
“Sometimes,” he says, voice low. “But you know, you learn to work around it. Nobody wants to hear about it anyway. Couldn’t let the guys see weakness.”
I nod, understanding. Loyalty. Team first. Always. It explains so much about him, why he covers for Murphy, why he baits Dylan, why he jokes constantly even when he’s clearly uncomfortable.
I take another sip of my coffee, letting the quiet between us stretch just long enough that it’s comfortable, not awkward.
“Do you… ever worry?” I ask carefully, testing the water. “About the contract? About whether they’ll renew you if the hip’s a problem?”
His jaw tightens, and I see the flicker of something he immediately bottles up; fear, frustration, self-doubt. He shakes his head, forcing a grin. “Nah. Not me. I’m fine. Totally fine. Just looking forward to the season, like everyone else.”
I can read him too well. But I let it slide, letting the conversation hover on lighter territory.
“You’re terrible at hiding things,” I tease, sipping again.
He laughs, low and warm, and I feel it more than I should. “Maybe you’re too good at noticing.”
The flirtation is a subtle, slow burn. A hand brushed against mine as we reach for sugar. Eyes locking a fraction too long. Smiles that linger just past polite. I have to fight the urge to lean forward, to test the invisible pull between us.
But the self-imposed rules are still there. I need to remain objective. Keep my distance. I remind myself why I’m here.
My father.
He’s the reason I landed this gig with The Raptors. Not my talent alone. Not my connections, not my ability to write a clean story without sensationalism.
It’s him. Pulling strings quietly behind the scenes, anonymous financial backing invested in the team’s media expansion.
Every note I take, every article I file, every observation I make is tethered to that hidden agenda.
Failure isn’t just personal; it could compromise an investment that’s millions deep.
I press my thumb to my coffee cup, breathing slowly. The weight of it is familiar, suffocating, and yet exhilarating. I need to prove I can be professional, smart, competent. And still, here I am, secretly thrilled that Ollie Taylor noticed me.
He’s telling a story about a ridiculous pre-season drill when his stick got caught in his own skate laces.
I laugh, genuinely, and the tension eases, replaced by the warmth of simple, human connection.
I notice the subtle wince again as he shifts his hip, but he hides it behind humour, shrugging like it’s nothing.
“You know,” I say softly, “you don’t have to make it all jokes. You can admit it hurts sometimes.”
He glances at me, eyes flicking away briefly, jaw tight. “Nah. That’s not really me. Don’t want anyone seeing me struggle. Team counts on me to be solid. Unshakable.”
I nod, understanding his loyalty. The sacrifice. The weight of being a professional athlete. And suddenly I feel protective, too, a dangerous thought that collides with my discipline.
But then his grin returns, just for me, small and private, and my chest flutters.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“And yet,” he says, leaning back just slightly, “here we are. Still talking.”
Time slips by too fast. We leave the café reluctantly, the air outside buzzing with city noise. I check my watch, less than an hour passed, and yet it feels like a stolen world of quiet and mischief.
He walks me toward the office door, stepping lightly, but I notice the slight shift again on his left side, his hip still dictating small compensations in his stride.
“You heading back to the studio?” he asks.
“Yes. I’ve got notes to finish, articles to draft. The boss wants me thorough.”
His expression darkens briefly, almost thoughtful. “That’s… a lot of pressure.”
“It is,” I admit, not embellishing. But I don’t tell him the full truth, about the investment, the strings, the invisible leash my father keeps on every step I take. That’s mine to bear. He doesn’t need it. Not yet.
He nods, and then, mischievous again, “Well, I expect you’ll write about the Raptors like a pro. But you can still sneak in a little observation of me.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Professionalism comes first.”
He winks. “I’ll remember that. Until next time, Professional Chloe.”
And just like that, he’s gone, blended back into the city crowd, leaving me with racing thoughts, a fluttering heart, and the impossible task of staying at the top of my own game while feeling more alive than I have in months.
I head back to the studio, heels clicking, pen ready, notes scattered across the desk. And every time I glance down at my notebook, I see him, his grin, the way his shoulders shift when he’s hiding discomfort, the way he’s becoming impossible to ignore.
Work mask firmly on. Heart, quietly chaotic underneath, secretly thrilled.
And I remind myself again why it matters so much: my father’s investment, my chance to prove I’m capable, my shot at being more than just a scandalous headline.
But now, with Ollie Taylor in the mix, it feels like a different kind of challenge. One I’m suddenly eager to accept.