Chapter 19 Ollie
CHAPTER NINETEEN
OLLIE
I’m still smiling when I make it back to my flat, still tasting her on my lips.
Christ, I kissed her. I finally kissed her.
I drop my jacket on the back of the sofa and fall face-first into the cushions, groaning into the fabric like a teenager. My chest feels like it’s about to burst, like I swallowed a lit sparkler and forgot to blow it out.
I didn’t mean to do it. Not really. I told myself I’d walk her home, keep things casual, be a gentleman. But then she looked up at me on the pavement with those wide, uncertain eyes, and everything in me just tipped over the edge.
And she kissed me back. That’s the part I can’t get past. She didn’t pull away. She leaned into it, soft at first, then fierce, like she’d been waiting too.
I roll onto my back, arms spread wide. I should be exhausted, training today was brutal, and I’ve got an early skate tomorrow, but my body is wired, jittery. My hip throbs dully, but even that pain feels muted against the rush of kissing her.
Of course, the sensible part of me knows this is a bloody nightmare waiting to happen. Murphy would kill me. Sophie would kill me harder. And Coach? Christ, I don’t even want to imagine Coach’s face if he knew I was making eyes at the one journalist he’s tolerated on sufferance.
But when Chloe laughed nervously against my mouth all I could think was, there’ll be a next time.
And that thought? That’s what’s keeping me awake.
By the time I drag myself to training the next morning, the high’s dulled slightly, replaced by a deep ache in my hip that makes me limp more than usual. I keep my strides long, hoping no one notices, but Mia’s eagle eyes catch me before I even make it to the changing room.
“Ollie.” Her voice is sharp enough to cut through steel. “Why are you walking like you’ve got a nail in your hip?”
I plaster on my grin. “Morning to you too, sunshine.”
She folds her arms. Not impressed. “Don’t ‘sunshine’ me. You’re off.”
“Off? Nah. Just,” I twist a little, wincing despite myself. “Bit stiff.”
Her brow arches. “You’re lying.”
I shrug. “You wound me.”
She points at the physio room. “Now.”
I groan theatrically, earning a snort from Murphy as he strolls past. “Busted already? Day’s not looking good for you, mate.”
“Pipe down,” I shoot back, but the banter feels thin, hollow. Murphy doesn’t notice, thank God. He just claps me on the back and saunters into the dressing room.
Mia, on the other hand, doesn’t let up until I’m stretched out on the physio table, her hands digging into my hip flexor with zero mercy.
“Jesus, Mia!” I yelp, clutching the edge of the table. “What’d I ever do to you?”
“You keep pretending this isn’t getting worse,” she snaps. “That’s what.”
I grit my teeth, trying not to squirm as she finds the tender spots with surgical precision.
She’s right, of course. The pain’s been sharper lately, lingering after games instead of fading with ice and rest. I’ve been compensating, skating harder with my left, trying to disguise the weakness in my stride.
But I can’t admit that. Not to her. Not to anyone.
So, I joke. “Come on, you’d miss me if I was perfect.”
Her hands pause for a beat, then resume their assault. “Ollie, I’m serious. You’re risking more damage if you don’t tell Coach the full extent of this.”
My stomach knots. Coach. Contract. The two words are inseparable in my head these days, and the thought makes bile creep up my throat.
If he knew how bad it was getting… No. Can’t go there.
“I’ll be fine,” I mutter, more to myself than her.
“You won’t be if you keep lying.”
Her voice is gentle now, which is somehow worse. I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the sting in my hip rather than the truth in her words.
Training is a blur after that. Drills, sprints, endless skating patterns. I keep my grin fixed, keep chirping the lads, but my hip screams with every pivot. By the time Coach blows the final whistle, I’m drenched in sweat and holding myself together by sheer force of will.
“Ollie. My office.”
The words freeze me in place.
The guys groan in sympathy. “What’ve you done now?” but I can’t laugh along. My stomach’s a stone as I limp after Coach, praying this isn’t what I think it is.
His office smells like old coffee and damp kit. He shuts the door behind me, gestures to the chair opposite his desk.
I sit, trying not to fidget.
He steeples his fingers, eyes narrowing. “You’re not moving right.”
My throat goes dry. “What d’you mean?”
“You’re compensating.” His gaze is sharp, unflinching. “Favouring your left. Pushing off unevenly. It’s been building for weeks. You think I don’t notice?”
I force a laugh. “Maybe I just need more sleep.”
He doesn’t smile. “Ollie.”
The weight of his stare pins me to the chair. My usual excuses shrivel.
I swallow. “Bit stiff, that’s all. Nothing serious.”
He leans back, arms crossed. “Mia says otherwise.”
Bloody hell, Mia.
I scramble. “She’s exaggerating. You know how she gets.”
Coach doesn’t buy it. Not even close. “You need to be straight with me. If this hip’s becoming a liability, we have to plan around it.”
Plan around it. The words echo in my head, twisting into something darker. Phase me out. Cut me loose.
I grip the edge of the chair until my knuckles ache. “I’m fine,” I insist, voice low, desperate. “I can play through it.”
A long silence. Then, finally, Coach sighs. “You’re one of the hardest-working lads on this team. But if you don’t start being honest about your body, you’ll burn yourself out before we even hit playoffs.”
The warning lands heavy, but I nod, forcing a grin. “Got it, boss. Honest as the day is long.”
He gives me a look that says he knows I’m lying, but he lets me go.
Back in the changing room, the guyss are laughing about something Murphy said, voices bouncing off the tiles. I throw myself into the noise, into the banter, but inside I’m spiralling.
Because the truth is, I’m terrified.
Not of the pain, I can handle pain. Always have.
But of what comes after. If the hip goes, if I can’t skate the way I used to, what am I? What happens to the lad whose only trick is being the cheerful one, the workhorse, the glue guy?
And what happens if Chloe finds out?
The thought blindsides me. But it’s there, lodged in my chest. She looked at me last night like I was strong, solid. What if she sees through it? What if she realises I’m one bad turn away from breaking?
I shove the thought down, plaster on my grin, and chirp Murphy about his terrible taste in music. But even as the guys laugh, my mind drifts back to Chloe. To her lips. To the way her hand felt in mine, small and warm and steady.
For the first time all day, the knot in my chest loosens.
Because maybe, just maybe, she’s worth the risk.