Chapter 16 Chloe
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHLOE
Sleep doesn’t come easy. I lie awake staring at the ceiling, reliving the almost-kiss like it’s a movie on a loop. The way Ollie leaned in, the way his breath warmed my cheek, how close his lips were to mine, too close, not close enough. My pulse still races every time I replay it.
And the worst part? I wanted it. Not in a professional, detached “observe and record” way. Not even in the playful, bantering way we’ve slipped into since I started shadowing the team. I wanted him in a kind of loud, visceral, no-journalistic-integrity-left kind of wanting.
It’s a terrible idea. Murphy would probably write me off forever if he found out. The team would clam up, stonewall me, the article I’m supposed to be writing would go up in flames.
But when I close my eyes, I don’t see consequences. I see Ollie’s grin in the lamplight, feel the ghost of his thumb brushing my cheek. And the hollow ache of what didn’t happen.
By the time morning comes, I’ve given up on sleep and drag myself into clothes with too much caffeine in my system. I’ve got interviews to schedule, notes to type, deadlines circling me like vultures. But instead of digging into work, I find myself tapping out a message I shouldn’t send.
Me: So about last night…
I stare at the blinking cursor. Coward. I shove my phone face down and bury myself in emails.
Except two minutes later, it buzzes.
Ollie: Morning, trouble. You sleep?
My stomach flips. I should ignore him. I don’t.
Me: Barely. Some idiot nearly kissed me and left me wide awake.
There’s a pause, three little dots flashing, vanishing, flashing again.
Ollie: Nearly? Sounds like he bottled it. Must be a coward.
Me: Or he knew better.
Ollie: Or he’s giving you time to change your mind.
I chew my lip, grinning despite myself. He’s dangerous, that one. Knows exactly how to toe the line between banter and confession.
Me: Professional distance, remember?
Ollie: Right. Entire arm’s length. Maybe two.
Me: Exactly.
Ollie: So… coffee?
I laugh out loud. My neighbours probably think I’ve lost it. Coffee with him again would be reckless. But my fingers type before my brain catches up.
Me: Fine. But this time, I pick the place.
The café I choose isn’t our usual spot near the rink.
It’s tucked in a side street, quieter, more anonymous.
If anyone from the team sees us, they’ll think nothing of it.
That’s what I tell myself as I slide into a booth and check my reflection in the window, pretending I don’t care how my hair looks.
Ollie arrives ten minutes late, cap pulled low, grin cocky. “What’s this then? A secret hideout?”
“Some of us don’t enjoy being the centre of attention,” I say, sipping my coffee.
“You wound me. Attention keeps me alive.” He shrugs off his jacket, and I notice the stiffness in his movement, the way he masks a wince. My eyes narrow before I can stop them.
“You okay?”
“Course.” He waves it off, sliding into the seat opposite. “Just sore from training. Jonno had us skating suicides till my lungs begged for mercy.”
He says it so breezily, but I catch the way his leg shifts under the table, like he’s trying to find a position that doesn’t ache. My reporter brain wants to dig, connect the dots, ask the follow-ups. But something softer in me pulls back. He’ll tell me when he wants to. If he wants to.
Instead, I tilt my head. “So. You’ve decided I’m trouble?”
His grin widens. “Undeniably. Certified chaos. Should come with a warning label.”
I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously charming,” he counters.
“Ridiculously arrogant.”
“Yet here you are, meeting me for coffee. Again.” He leans forward, eyes locked on mine, playful but edged with something hotter. “Which means either you secretly like arrogant men, or you like me.”
I open my mouth, close it again. My cheeks burn. Damn him.
“You’re insufferable,” I manage.
“And you’re not denying it,” he says, smug.
I want to throttle him. Or kiss him. Possibly both.
We fall into easier conversation after that. He tells me a story about a teammate mixing up protein powder with pancake mix, ending in what he describes as “the saddest, densest pucks ever masquerading as food.” I laugh until I nearly choke, and he looks so proud of himself it makes me melt.
For a moment, I forget about Murphy’s threats, about journalistic distance, about everything but the man in front of me. He’s quick, witty, endlessly entertaining. And under all that bravado, there’s something vulnerable he doesn’t want anyone to see.
I get a glimpse of it when I ask about the season. “You think you’ll re-sign next year?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
His grin falters. Just a flash, there and gone. “Dunno. Long way off.”
“But you’ve been with The Raptors for years,” I press gently. “You’re Ollie Taylor. Fan favourite. Why wouldn’t they keep you?”
He shrugs, eyes dropping to his coffee. “You know how it is. Fresh blood, younger guys coming up. Old bodies wear down.” He clears his throat, forces a laugh. “Anyway, who wants to talk contracts over cappuccinos?”
I watch him carefully. He’s hiding something. The stiffness, the evasiveness, it clicks into place. His hip. He’s hurting, and he doesn’t want anyone to know.
“Ollie…” I start, soft.
But he shakes his head sharply, masking it with another grin. “Nah. Not today. Let’s keep it light, eh? You tell me something embarrassing instead. Balance the scales.”
He deflects and I let him. For now.
Later that afternoon, I drop by the rink to check in with Jacko for a quote. I slip into the corridor just as practice ends, the players streaming past me in various states of exhaustion and sweat. Murphy spots me instantly, his face souring like I’ve crawled out of the woodwork.
“You again?” he mutters.
“Don’t look so thrilled,” I shoot back, keeping my tone breezy.
Murphy doesn’t bother hiding his scowl. “Careful, Chloe. You get too close, you’ll end up in places you don’t belong.”
His words sting more than I want to admit. He doesn’t trust me. Maybe he never will.
Ollie emerges behind him, towel slung around his neck. Our eyes meet for half a second, quick, secret. He smirks, subtle, a spark only for me. Then he’s gone, swallowed by the team.
My stomach flips again. This is dangerous.
That night, my phone buzzes again.
Ollie: Survived practice. Barely. Hero points?
Me: You don’t get points for doing your job.
Ollie: Harsh. Thought you were supposed to be my biggest fan.
Me: Journalists don’t do “fan.”
Ollie: Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.
My cheeks burn, and I curse at the screen. He’s impossible. And yet I type back. Again.
Me: You’re insufferable, Taylor.
Ollie: And yet you can’t quit me.
I laugh despite myself, dropping the phone onto my chest. He’s right. I should quit him. Walk away before this spins out of control.
But then I think of the way he almost kissed me, the way he hides his pain behind jokes, the way he makes me feel like the only person in the room when he looks at me.
And I know I’m already in too deep.
The following days blur into a strange rhythm.
Mornings spent writing, afternoons chasing quotes, evenings trading messages with Ollie that grow increasingly reckless.
He calls me “trouble” so often it starts to feel like a nickname.
I call him “coward” whenever he ducks out of saying what he really feels.
We meet for coffee twice more, always in out-of-the-way cafés where no one will see. Each time the banter sharpens, the silences thicken, the touches get bolder. A hand brushing mine as he passes me the sugar, a knee bump under the table that lingers a beat too long.
I’m half-convinced one of us will cave, lean across the table and finish what we started that night outside the pub. But he doesn’t. And neither do I.
And yet every time we part, I walk away buzzing, skin alive, heart pounding.
I tell myself I’m just gathering material. Observing. Documenting.
But deep down, I know better.
The weekend rolls around, and I find myself outside the pub again.
This time, I don’t go in. I linger across the street, watching through the window as the team laughs, drinks, lives in their little world.
Murphy’s loud, Dylan steady, Jacko calm.
Mia leans against Dylan, Sophie’s perched by Murphy, and little Lila is once again the star attraction, twirling around the table with baby Finn cradled like a doll.
And there’s Ollie.
He’s laughing, head thrown back, glass in hand. He looks happy. Belonging. A part of something bigger.
For a moment, jealousy flares sharp in my chest. That’s his world. I’m not invited in. Not really. Not with Murphy watching me like a hawk, not with the rest of them closing ranks.
I turn to leave, hugging my coat tighter. And then my phone buzzes.
Ollie: Look left.
I freeze. Slowly, I glance back, and there he is, at the pub door, grinning at me like he’s caught me spying.
I shake my head, flustered. Type back.
Me: Go inside, Taylor.
Ollie: Not without you.
My pulse stutters. He can’t mean it. He can’t.
Me: You’ll get yourself killed. Murphy will have my head.
Ollie: Worth it.
And just like that, I’m undone. Standing in the cold, heart racing, caught between sense and desire.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to walk away. Not anymore.