Chapter 40 Ollie
CHAPTER FORTY
OLLIE
The walls of the treatment room are closing in. Too white, too clean, too bloody clinical. The scent of disinfectant burns my nose, and the hum of the overhead lights drills into my skull. Every second I spend in this bed feels like another nail hammered into the coffin of my career.
Jonno left two hours ago, muttering about scans and treatment plans.
Mia’s been in and out, checking vitals, making notes, trying to keep me from moving.
None of it helps. The pain in my hip is constant, a low burn that spikes if I so much as shift.
Apparently, we’re now waiting on the team doctor to get here and give me an injection.
I don’t care what it is as long as it numbs this fucking pain.
But worse than the pain is the helplessness.
I should be in the gym, or on the ice, skating through drills until my lungs give out. Instead, I’m stuck here, useless.
And Murphy, fucking Murphy, he’s somewhere laughing about this, probably spinning the story to make me look like the reckless idiot who let a woman get in his head.
I dig my fingers into the mattress, jaw clenched so hard it aches.
A soft knock breaks through my spiral.
“Mind if I come in?”
Jacko pokes his head around the door, a paper bag in hand. He doesn’t wait for me to answer, just strides in, shoulders filling the doorway like always.
“Thought you could use this.” He pulls out a loaf of bread, still warm, the smell of rosemary and sea salt filling the sterile room.
I let out a shaky laugh. “You stress-baked again.”
“Of course I did. Nearly kneaded the bloody counter in half.” He shrugs, placing the loaf on the side table. “Better than punching walls, eh?”
I huff, but the tension in my chest eases just a little. That’s Jacko for you. Doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s exactly what I need.
He sinks into the chair opposite the bed, studying me with those sharp, dark eyes. “How bad?”
“Bad enough.” My voice is rough, low. “Jonno says tear. Weeks, maybe longer. Playoffs if I’m lucky. Just waiting on Doc now, once he’s injected me, I can go home. Although, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to get there.”
Jacko whistles. “Shit.”
“Yeah.” I rub a hand over my face. “And the worst part? Murphy’s probably telling anyone who’ll listen that I went down because I’m distracted. Because of Chloe.”
Jacko leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Let him talk. The guys know you. They know how hard you work. Don’t let him write your story.”
I want to believe him. But Murphy’s venom seeps deep. The rookies hear him, laugh with him. Even Coach looks at me like I’m one bad headline away from wrecking everything.
Jacko must see the storm on my face, because he sighs.
“Listen, Olls. Murphy’s being a dick right now, but he’s loyal to the core.
Right now, he thinks he’s protecting the team.
Protecting Sophie. You and Chloe… it’s complicated for him.
Doesn’t mean he’s right. Doesn’t mean you back down either.
You’ve got to decide what matters most, hockey or her. ”
The words land heavy, because that’s the question that’s been clawing at me since the second Murphy found us in the showers.
“I can’t choose,” I admit, voice cracking. “Hockey’s all I’ve ever had. But Chloe, she’s—” I swallow hard. “She’s the first thing that’s made me feel like more than a pair of skates.”
Jacko’s gaze softens. “Then fight for both. Don’t let Murphy back you into a corner.”
The door creaks open again, and Chloe slips in. She looks composed, calm even, but her eyes give her away. They’re red-rimmed, tired, burning with something that isn’t just anger.
“Hey,” she says softly, crossing to the bed. Her hand finds mine, warm and steady.
Jacko rises, giving me a look that says I’ll be back later. He nods at Chloe, then slips out, leaving us in the hush of beeping monitors.
“You okay?” I ask, searching her face.
She nods. “I found Murphy.”
My stomach twists. “Chloe…”
“Don’t.” Her voice is sharp, but it trembles at the edges. “He needed to hear it. He needed to know he doesn’t get to control me anymore. Or you.”
I want to argue, to tell her she’s only painting a bigger target on her back. But there’s steel in her eyes, something unbreakable, and I can’t bring myself to dim it.
“What did he say?”
Her lips press into a line. “Enough. But I gave it back.”
I squeeze her hand, even though my chest is tight with fear. Fear of Murphy, of the team splintering, of contracts slipping through my fingers. But Chloe’s hand is steady, grounding me in the storm.
“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper.
She tilts her head, eyes softening. “Then be the man who does.”
The words hit like a punch, sharp and clean. She’s not asking me to give up hockey. She’s not asking me to let Murphy win. She’s asking me to stand taller, even when everything feels like it’s crumbling.
I nod, throat thick. “I’ll try.”
The next day, rehab starts.
Mia is ruthless, pushing me to stretch, to breathe through the pain, to admit when I can’t. Every pull in my hip feels like fire, and sweat slicks my skin within minutes. I grit my teeth, refusing to give her the satisfaction of hearing me whine.
“You’re stubborn,” she mutters, hands firm as she guides my leg. “But stubborn doesn’t heal tears.”
“Neither does sitting on my arse,” I snap, then instantly regret it.
She raises a brow. “Then find the middle ground, Ollie. Or you’ll be watching playoffs from the stands.”
The thought makes bile rise in my throat.
When the session’s over, I limp down the corridor, crutches digging into my ribs. The locker room chatter reaches me before I push the door open.
“…Romeo’s back from physio,” Murphy’s voice carries, laced with mockery. “Watch your backs boys.”
Laughter ripples, sharp and uneasy.
My grip on the crutches tightens until my knuckles ache. When I step inside, the room falls half-silent. A few rookies look away, shame flickering in their eyes. Murphy just smirks, towel draped around his neck like a crown.
Jacko’s the first to move. He stands, crossing the room to clap me on the shoulder. “Ignore him,” he mutters low, steady. “You’ve got nothing to prove.”
But I do. Every stare in this room says so.
Still, I force myself to keep my head high, hobbling on crutches to my stall, pretending I can’t feel the whispers clawing at my back.
That evening, Jacko drags me and Chloe to his place for dinner. Maya greets us with a warm smile and a kiss on Jacko’s cheek, the smell of garlic bread drifting from the kitchen.
For a while, the tension eases. We eat, we laugh, we listen to Lila chatter about school and unicorns.
Then Lila fixes Chloe with a serious little frown.
“Did you hurt my Ollie?” she asks, voice solemn.
Chloe freezes, fork halfway to her mouth.
Jacko coughs into his glass, fighting a laugh. Maya shoots him a look.
I glance at Chloe, heart in my throat, but she surprises me. She leans down, meeting Lila’s gaze with the same steady calm she shows me.
“No, sweetheart,” she says softly. “But I’m going to take care of him.”
Lila studies her a moment longer, then nods, satisfied. “Good, because he’s mine too.”
The table bursts into laughter, the tension breaking. Chloe’s cheeks flush, but she squeezes my hand under the table, and something eases in my chest.
And I let myself believe that maybe we’ll make it through this.
But later, when everyone’s asleep, I find my mind drifting back to the rink.
The ice gleaming under the dim lights, empty, waiting. I envisage hobbling to the boards, lowering myself onto the bench. My skates stay in the bag, untouched.
I close my eyes, breathing in the familiar chill, the faint echo of blades cutting ice. Out here, the noise fades, the whispers, the doubts, the venom in Murphy’s voice.
All that’s left is me.
And for now, that has to be enough.