Chapter 23 Ollie
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
OLLIE
The morning air hits me when I walk into the rink, sharp and cold, but it barely registers.
My focus is elsewhere, tangled in last night, in Chloe.
The memory of her hands brushing mine, the way she’d pressed close in the kitchen, the teasing glint in her eyes, it all sits under my skin, distracting and thrilling all at once.
I shake my head as if to clear it, but the memory lingers, a spark that refuses to die.
Jacko is already pacing the ice, giving off his usual calm authority.
The rookies are stretching, expressions unreadable, while Murphy is busy muttering about the new drills, shaking his head at anything that doesn’t go according to plan.
I can’t help the small grin that creeps onto my face at his predictability.
I lace my skates, careful, methodical, but even this simple ritual isn’t enough to keep my mind from wandering.
Chloe. Coffee mugs abandoned on the counter, lips pressed to mine, hands tangled in hair and jacket alike.
The memory is a live wire, humming in my chest, reminding me of what I want and can’t quite have in public.
Coach blows the whistle. “Warm-up. Eyes sharp, heads sharper. Don’t give them a chance.”
I step onto the ice, the friction of blades against the polished surface grounding me momentarily.
The puck hits my stick, a satisfying click, but even as I pass, I feel the phantom heat of Chloe’s fingers brushing my erection.
I push it aside, focusing on the drills, skating tight patterns, aggressive checks, rapid passes.
Dylan towers over me, Murphy chattering beside me, Jacko directing, and yet, even here, my attention keeps straying.
“Oi, Taylor!” Murphy yells, waving his stick at me. “You’re grinning like a fool. Did someone call you a hero in the mirror or are you just imagining a romantic plot?”
I snort, shaking my head. “Nothing like that.”
“Sure,” he mutters, unconvinced, but lets it slide. Typical Murphy, tease first, judge later.
The first period is relentless. The opposing team is a brick wall of aggression, hammering at our defence, forcing me to respond, to anticipate, to stay alert.
My hip aches quietly, a dull whisper of pain, a reminder that it’s still there and still stubborn.
I grit my teeth, hiding it behind precise movements and controlled aggression.
Chloe is in the back of my mind, a subtle, insistent nudge, keeping me sharp, keeping me on edge.
A break in play allows me a brief respite, and I glance toward the press box, imagining her there, notebook open, eyes focused, trying not to smile.
That thought alone makes me grin, and I push harder on the next shift, letting the memory fuel my aggression on the ice.
Every pass, every shot, every dodge is sharper, faster, more calculated.
Murphy catches me at mid-ice during a pause and shoves me lightly. “Get your head out of the clouds, Ol. Next time the puck’s in your face, I don’t want daydreams getting in the way.”
I grin, nodding, even as the blush of thought makes me want to swear under my breath. He has no idea. Not a clue. Not that anyone will.
The second period is brutal. Bodies slam into boards, sticks clash, skates scrape. I feel every hit, every movement, my hip protesting more audibly, but I ignore it. Chloe isn’t a distraction here, she’s a motivator, a subtle push that keeps me alert, keeps me alive in the chaos.
We score late in the period. A clean strike past the goalie, perfect placement. I imagine Chloe seeing it, maybe jotting down a note, a small smile tugging at her lips, and I can’t help the tiny victory grin that forms on my face.
“Ol, keep imagining,” Murphy yells, though there’s amusement in his tone. “This isn’t a soap opera. Puck’s coming, focus!”
I snap back, skating hard, diving for the next puck, ignoring the ache in my hip. Chloe’s there, in the corner of my mind, her presence like a tether to something warmer, something that isn’t just the roar of the rink and the clatter of sticks.
By the third period, we’re locked in a tense struggle.
The other team is relentless, pushing every inch of ice.
My muscles burn, lungs ache, but I push through, every movement calculated, every pass intentional.
Chloe is the quiet drum in my chest, urging me forward, making me sharper, faster, harder.
The final whistle blows, signalling victory, but there’s no time to linger. The team collapses into laughter and chatter, collapsing into piles of sweaty jerseys and grins. Jacko claps my shoulder, Dylan nods tersely, Murphy’s already recounting the last play in loud, animated fashion.
I drag my gear toward the locker room, every step a reminder of what waits. Chloe. Alone. Watching. Patient. Dangerous.
The locker room is a wall of noise, sweat, and laughter.
Jerseys are half-peeled off, pads scattered everywhere, the place smelling like victory and exhaustion rolled into one.
Murphy’s standing on a bench, miming his goal with wild flailing arms while Dylan shakes his head like he’s seen this show a thousand times.
“Best finish you’ll ever see in your life!” Murphy crows. “Goalie never stood a chance, straight through the five-hole like butter on a hot pan.”
“Pretty sure the puck ricocheted off your shinpad,” Dylan rumbles, tossing a towel at him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Murphy shoots back, catching it with a grin. “Still counts. You don’t ask how, you ask how many.”
That sets everyone off again, clapping, whooping, a couple of water bottles sprayed like champagne. I can’t help laughing, the sound loosening something tight in my chest.
Then Jacko hauls a battered Tupperware box out of his kit bag like it’s some kind of sacred relic. “Alright, settle down, animals. You can’t celebrate on empty stomachs.”
“Bear’s baking!” someone yells, and the whole room erupts.
“Protein bars?” I ask, trying not to grin.
“Brownies,” Jacko says solemnly, like the word itself is holy. “Double chocolate. Don’t ask how many calories, you don’t wanna know.”
He starts handing them out, big square chunks passed hand to hand like treasure. The noise level cranks up again as the first bites go around. Murphy takes two before anyone can stop him.
“Oi, share!” Dylan barks, smacking him on the back of the head.
“Hey, I burned the most energy tonight. Science says I need the extra fuel.”
“Science says you’re full of it,” I shoot back, but he just grins, chocolate already smeared at the corner of his mouth.
Jonno’s laughing from his spot near the door, towel draped around his neck, and even Coach cracks a rare smile as he walks past. “Good win,” he says simply, voice rough but warm. “Enjoy it.”
For a moment, sitting there with sweat still drying on my skin and laughter bouncing off the walls, it feels like nothing else exists, no stress, no pressure, no secrets.
Just us. Brothers in bruises and broken sticks, in stupid in-jokes and shared wins.
A family that doesn’t need to be named because we already know what it is.
Jacko drops the last brownie square into my hand, eyebrows raised. “Don’t say I never do anything for you, Ol.”
I grin, biting into it. “I’ll never doubt you again, Bear.”
The laughter surges once more, echoing long after the game’s over.
The locker room is quieter now, most of the team already gone, leaving echoes and warmth behind. And there she is. My chest tightens. My pulse quickens. The notebook is still in her hands, but her gaze lifts as I approach. The space between us is electric, charged, impossible to ignore.
“Hey,” I murmur, voice low, teasing, attempting casual as if my heartbeat isn’t thundering. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“I like to observe the aftermath,” she says lightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Make sure no one trashes the place.”
“You’re lucky you’re charming,” I tease, thumb brushing the strap of her jacket. Her eyes flick to mine, hesitation mixing with desire, a tension that hums under our words.
I close the final space between us. Lips meet in a kiss that starts soft, testing, but deepens as we give into the pull between us. Hands tangle, hair pulled, bodies pressed together. Heat blooms, urgent and insistent, a delicious, dizzying pull.
Coffee mugs, notebooks, everything else disappears. Only her and I remain, suspended in a moment too intense, too real to be anything but electric. Her hands trace my back, memorising, claiming, grounding us both as I press closer, responding in kind.
“You’re insane,” she murmurs against my lips.
“And you like it,” I reply, teasing, low, dangerous, shivering at the heat she generates.
We stumble backward toward the benches, still caught in the orbit of our own chaos. Each kiss, each touch, each whispered murmur ignites something more profound, more private. My heart races, every nerve ending alive.
And then, just as our lips part briefly, a soft cough at the door. Jonno. Surprise flits across his face, but he merely shakes his head, mutters something about boundaries, and backs away. “None of my business,” he says before leaving us in the charged quiet once more.
Chloe’s chest rises and falls, her eyes dark with want, with amusement, with unspoken questions. I brush a stray hair from her face, thumb lingering on her cheek. “I can’t… not with you,” I whisper, voice rough, dark, teasing.
Her lips twitch into a small smile, leaning close, and I feel the fire in my chest grow hotter. We don’t speak again, letting the heat, the closeness, the tension speak for us.
I finally pull back reluctantly, breathing uneven, heart still racing. Hands linger, fingers brushing, a silent promise that this isn’t over, that nothing between us is fleeting.
I grab my gear, muscles buzzing from the game, adrenaline still high, and let one last glance fall on her. The warmth, the heat, the thrill remains, a silent thread tying us together even as the locker room empties, leaving only echoes behind.
Because Chloe isn’t just a distraction. She’s a storm, a fire, a force that refuses to be ignored, and I’m completely, utterly caught.