Chapter 38 Ollie
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
OLLIE
The world narrows to fluorescent lights and the sharp stink of disinfectant.
My hip is screaming, every throb a reminder of how fast everything fell apart. One second, I was on my skates, head clear, body locked in, proving Murphy couldn’t rattle me. The next, I’m hitting the boards, white-hot pain, and the kind of silence you only get when something’s gone horribly wrong.
Now I’m flat on a hospital bed in the rink’s medical wing, strapped up like a bloody science experiment while Mia and Jonno hover with clipboards and clinical voices.
I want to tell them to sod off, that I’m fine, but the truth is written all over me.
My face is clammy, my shirt’s half stuck to my back with sweat, and I can’t shift without feeling like my hip’s about to snap in half.
Chloe’s perched on the chair beside me, her hand wrapped tight around mine. She hasn’t let go since they wheeled me off the ice. Her eyes are steady, even though her lips press into a line so thin it looks painful.
“Alright, Ol,” Jonno says, tapping something into his notes. “Talk to me. Scale of one to ten.”
“Three,” I grit out, even though the number feels more like eleven.
Mia’s eyebrow shoots up. “Try again.”
I glare at the ceiling. “Five.”
Chloe squeezes my hand like she’s calling bullshit on me, too.
Jonno crouches so we’re eye level. He’s calm, but there’s no give in his voice. “Listen, mate. I’ve seen enough injuries to know when someone’s trying to play tough. You’re not doing yourself favours by lying.”
I open my mouth, ready to argue, but the shift of my hip makes me gasp before I can get the words out. My pride deflates with the breath.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Eight. Maybe nine when I move.”
Mia exchanges a look with Jonno that says finally. She sets her clipboard down and pulls up the rolling stool, her hands already gloved. “You’ve done some damage, Ollie. Nothing that screams surgery right this second, but this isn’t just a tweak. You’ve got to be smart about it.”
“Smart,” I scoff, because the word feels like a bloody insult. “What’s smart? Sitting out the rest of the season? Letting Murphy think he’s won?”
Chloe’s voice cuts through before Mia can respond. “Smart is being able to walk in ten years.”
I turn my head toward her, ready to snap, but the look in her eyes stops me cold. It’s not pity. It’s not fear. It’s steel. She’s not asking me to stop fighting, she’s telling me to fight differently.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “If I sit out, my contract’s as good as gone.”
Jonno leans back on his heels. “You don’t know that but better no contract than no career. You keep pushing this, and you’ll be done for good.”
The words punch harder than Murphy ever could. No career. Just like that, the thing I’ve bled for since I was a kid could vanish.
I look away, staring at the far wall. The hum of the fluorescent lights drills into my skull. “So, what, I just give up?”
Mia’s voice softens, but it doesn’t lose its edge. “No. You listen. You rehab. You play smart instead of reckless. We can get you back on the ice, but only if you stop pretending you’re invincible.”
Chloe’s thumb strokes across my knuckles, grounding me. “You’re not giving up,” she says quietly. “You’re letting yourself heal. There’s a difference.”
I want to argue, to throw their words back in their faces, but the truth is I can’t even sit up without feeling like my body’s betraying me. I close my eyes, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
“I hate this,” I mutter.
“I know,” Chloe whispers back.
Jonno stands, scribbling on his clipboard. “We’ll run some scans. Get the full picture before we talk timelines. But Ollie? No more hiding. If it hurts, you say so. Got it?”
I nod, because I don’t trust my voice not to crack.
Mia gives my shoulder a pat, her tone gentler now. “We’re on your side, Ollie. Don’t forget that.”
When they leave to prep the scans, the room feels both too big and too small. I stare at the ceiling, willing my breathing to even out, but all I can feel is the weight pressing down on me. My hip. My contract. My team. Chloe.
She shifts closer, free hand brushing damp hair off my forehead. “You don’t have to keep everything bottled up, you know.”
I huff a laugh, though it comes out more like a groan. “I’m not exactly a share-my-feelings kind of guy.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” she says, lips twitching.
Despite everything, it makes me smile. “You think you’ve got me figured out, huh?”
Her expression softens. “Not even close. But I know enough. Enough to see how much this is eating you alive.”
The dam cracks. “If I lose hockey, Chloe, what’s left? It’s all I’ve ever had. All I’ve ever been good at.”
Her hand tightens around mine. “You’ve got more than hockey. You’ve got people who care about you. Jacko. The boys, well, most of them. Me.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Especially me.”
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I turn my head, pressing my forehead to the back of her hand. “You shouldn’t even be here. Not with all the shit flying around. My mess is swallowing you whole.”
“Stop,” she says firmly. “This isn’t your mess. It’s ours. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Her certainty slices through my despair. For the first time since hitting the ice, I feel like I can breathe.
The medics return, shifting me carefully onto a gurney to wheel me to radiology. Every bump sends a flare of agony through my hip, but Chloe walks beside me, never letting go of my hand.
The scans are a blur of cold machines and clinical instructions. When it’s over, they wheel me back, strapping me in again, and I want to scream. At them. At Murphy. At the universe.
But Chloe’s still there. Always there.
When Jonno returns with the preliminary results, his expression is unreadable. “Good news, no full dislocation. Bad news, there’s a tear. We’ll need to confirm the extent, but you’re looking at weeks minimum before you’re anywhere near ready for contact again.”
Weeks. Might as well be years.
I clench my fists. “That’s it then. Season’s over.”
“Not necessarily,” Mia says quickly. “Rehab right, and you could be back before playoffs. But only if you listen this time. No shortcuts.”
Playoffs. The word dangles like a lifeline I can barely reach.
I nod stiffly, though inside I’m screaming.
Jonno leaves again, giving me and Chloe some space. For a while, neither of us speaks. The silence is heavy, but not suffocating. She just keeps holding my hand, her thumb tracing little circles into my skin.
Finally, she says, “I’m going to find Murphy.”
The words snap my head around, pain be damned. “Chlo, no. Don’t.”
Her jaw is set, eyes blazing. “He put you on that stretcher. He’s been chipping at you for weeks, and now this? Someone has to say it.”
“Coach will handle him.”
“Coach isn’t the one Murphy’s been gunning for,” she shoots back. “It’s me and by default, it’s you. This is my fault. And if the team doesn’t see what he’s doing, then maybe they need it spelled out.”
Fear spikes through me sharper than the pain in my hip. “He’ll twist it. Make you the villain. He already hates you.”
She leans in, pressing her forehead against mine, voice low and certain. “Let him try. I’ve been hated before. I can take it. What I can’t take is watching you get torn apart while everyone pretends it’s fine. This is not fine and I’m done with Murphy’s shit.”
I want to stop her. I want to chain her to this chair, keep her safe from Murphy’s venom. But she’s already decided. I can see it in the set of her shoulders, the fire in her eyes.
And for once, maybe she’s right. Maybe someone does need to call him out.
I let out a shaky breath, the fight draining out of me. “Just… be careful.”
Her smile is fierce, defiant. “Always.”
As she rises from the chair, my gut twists. Pain, fear, pride, they all churn together until I don’t know which way’s up.
But one thing’s certain. Chloe’s about to go to war.
And Murphy has no idea what’s coming.