Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
OLLIE
The rink’s always cold at this time of the morning, the kind of chill that seeps straight through your hoodie no matter how many layers you wear.
I tug mine tighter around me as I limp toward the physio room, hip throbbing from yesterday’s drills.
It’s manageable, hell, it’s always manageable, but Coach and Mia keep drilling into me that “manageable” isn’t the same as “healthy.”
Mia’s waiting with her clipboard, ponytail sharp, Raptors jacket zipped halfway. She looks more alert than I feel, eyes narrowing at the way I favour my right side as I climb onto the treatment table.
“Morning, Ollie,” she says, matter-of-fact. “You look like you got run over by the Zamboni.”
I snort. “Cheers, Mia. Appreciate the bedside manner.”
“I call it how I see it.” She flips to a fresh page on her notes, already tugging on latex gloves. “Hip?”
“Hip.”
She gestures for me to lie back, and I do, staring up at the ceiling tiles while she presses carefully along the joint, testing range of motion. My jaw clenches when her thumb digs into a particularly tight spot.
“Still locking up?” she asks.
“Sometimes. Not as bad as before.”
“Be honest.”
I sigh. “Fine. Yeah. Still locks. Especially after games.”
Her expression softens, though her hands don’t. She rotates my leg slowly, searching for the limits. “You’ve been carrying this for a while, haven’t you?”
“Couple years.” I wince when she pushes too far.
“More like three,” she corrects gently. “I’ve seen the scans.”
Busted.
Mia sets my leg down and studies me. Not as a physio, but as someone who knows the weight of secrets. “You’re scared about what happens next, aren’t you?”
I blink at her. “What do you mean?”
Her lips twitch in something that’s not quite a smile.
“Dylan and I… we had to keep things under wraps when we first got together. Not because we wanted to, but because I was scared, thought I’d lose my job too.
It wasn’t the right time for the team, for the media, for,” she waves vaguely, “all the noise that comes with this job. It felt like walking a tightrope. One wrong step, and it was over.”
Her voice softens. “I see the same look in your eyes. It’s not just the hip, is it?”
I swallow hard. “Mia…”
“Dylan told me what happened in the locker room. You don’t have to tell me anything,” she interrupts, kind. “But I get it. More than you think.”
For a second, I want to dodge. Crack a joke. Pretend this is just about sore muscles. But the words burn in my throat, demanding to come out.
“I’m worried,” I admit quietly. “About my contract. About whether they’ll keep me on after this season. Hip’s bad enough, but now,” I cut myself off before I say Chloe’s name. “There’s all this other stuff. Complicated stuff. And I don’t know if I can juggle it all without screwing everything up.”
Mia doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t press. She just gives me that level, steady look that makes you feel like she’s already read every line of your story.
“Listen,” she says, setting her clipboard aside. “You’re more than your hip. You’re more than the ice. And you’re allowed to have a life outside this rink, no matter what anyone else says. If Dylan and I had waited until it was convenient, we’d still be pretending to be strangers.”
The corner of my mouth twitches. “Yeah, but you’re Dylan’s girl. You two are golden. Me? I’m—”
“You’re Ollie Taylor,” she cuts in, sharp. “One of the best damn wingers in this league when you’re not beating yourself up. Don’t sell yourself short.”
The praise hits harder than it should. I rub a hand over my face, trying to mask the sting in my eyes.
Mia softens again. “If you want my advice? Hold onto the thing, or the person, that makes the rest worth it. That’s your anchor. That’s what’ll carry you through.”
Her words land with frightening accuracy. I picture Chloe’s laugh, the way she kisses like she’s starving and soft all at once. The way she admitted she’s terrified of being seen only as someone’s daughter, someone’s headline.
She’s my anchor, whether I deserve her or not.
“Thanks, Mia,” I murmur.
She squeezes my ankle lightly before standing. “Now, let’s get you taped up before Coach comes in here and asks why you’re crying on my table.”
“I wasn’t crying,” I grumble, but my voice cracks on the word.
“Sure you weren’t,” she says with a smirk.
By the time I hit the locker room, the guys are already loud. Murphy’s holding court, telling some story about a disastrous fan meet and greet. Jacko’s chuckling in the corner, Dylan and Jonno shaking their heads like they’ve heard it all before.
Normally, I’d slip right into the rhythm. Throw a chirp back, laugh, let it wash over me. But today, as soon as I sit down, I can feel the subtle shift.
Murphy’s eyes flick my way. His grin falters. A couple of the younger guys exchange glances, mutter something low. It’s not outright hostility, it’s worse. It’s hesitation. Like they don’t know if I’m still one of them, or something separate.
The fallout from Chloe in the showers is still hanging in the air. Nobody says her name, but she’s there. A ghost in every sidelong glance.
“You good, Taylor?” Chris, one of the rookies asks, tone too careful.
“Peachy,” I say flatly, yanking my jersey over my head.
The silence that follows says it all.
Murphy grunts something incoherent but I let it slide. Anything to avoid lighting the fuse.
That’s when Jacko speaks. Calm, steady, the way only he can. “He’s still Ollie. Still the guy who’ll drop gloves before you even finish asking. Stop acting like he grew horns.”
The words hit me square in the chest. My throat tightens. I keep my head down, taping my stick like nothing’s wrong, but inside, I’m clinging to that lifeline.
Because Jacko’s right, I am still me. And he’s the only one who seems to remember it.
Practice is ruthless. Coach doesn’t let up, running us through relentless skating drills, puck battles, full-contact scrimmages that leave my lungs burning. Every stride pulls at my hip like a warning bell, but I push harder, trying to drown out the noise in my head.
Murphy chirps me from the bench, something about skating like a pensioner, but I tune him out. My focus is narrowed, laser-sharp, because if I let it slip, I’ll think too much. About contracts. About secrets.
By the time practice ends, my shirt is plastered to my skin, legs trembling with exhaustion. Jacko claps me on the shoulder as we head toward the showers.
“Good grind today,” he says, his way of telling me he saw me hurting but pushing through anyway.
“Yeah,” I mutter, forcing a smile.
Later, when the room is quiet, I find myself alone on the bench, lacing and unlacing my skates just to keep my hands busy. The echo of Mia’s words won’t leave me. Find your anchor.
I pull my phone from my bag, hesitating only a second before tapping out a message.
Ollie: You’re my favourite complication. Don’t run, yeah?
The dots appear almost instantly.
Chloe: Complication, huh? That’s romantic.
Ollie: You know what I mean.
Chloe: I do. And I’m not running.
My chest eases for the first time all day. I tuck the phone away, shoulders sagging with something that almost feels like relief.
Tomorrow will bring more drills, more noise, more secrecy. But right now, I’ve got an anchor. And that’s enough.