Chapter 41 Chloe
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHLOE
The hum of my laptop is the only sound in the little office space Coach grudgingly handed over.
Four walls that smell faintly of dust and coffee grounds, a desk with one wobbly leg, and a view of the car park out back where the ice still clings to the tarmac in stubborn patches.
It’s hardly glamorous, but right now it’s the only place I can breathe.
Murphy’s words from the confrontation still sting. He didn’t even need to raise his voice, his disgust carried in every syllable. He made it clear, again, that he thinks I’m poison. And Ollie’s paying the price just for being near me.
I should walk away. It would be the smart thing. Leave, protect him, protect myself. But then I see him in my mind again, the moment he hit the boards, the agony carved into his face, and I know I can’t. If I leave now, Murphy wins. And Ollie loses more than just me.
So I write.
My fingers fly across the keys, filling the blank screen with words I’ve never dared commit before. Not about Ollie directly, but about what this sport does to people, the bruises, the surgeries, the quiet mornings when you can’t bend down to tie your skates but you lace them anyway.
This isn’t just a love story, I type. My stomach flips as the words settle on the page. It’s a story about survival.
The door creaks open. Benji, the rookie with wet hair and a perpetual deer-in-headlights look, pokes his head in.
“Uh, Chloe? You said you needed quotes?” His voice is cautious, polite, like he’s not sure if he should even be talking to me.
“Yeah.” I snap the laptop closed before he can see anything. Grab my notepad. “Two minutes.”
He steps in but hovers by the door, eyes darting like someone’s watching. And they probably are. Murphy doesn’t need to say anything out loud, the rookies have already caught on that being seen with me isn’t a good career move as far as Murphy’s concerned.
I keep my questions simple. “Halfway through your first season. How’s it feel?”
“Good.” Too quick. Too clipped.
“And biggest adjustment?”
“Speed.” One-word answers, rehearsed. Safe.
I jot it down, force a smile, and let him go. He all but bolts.
The hollow in my chest spreads wider. It’s happening, Murphy’s shadow stretching over the younger guys, warping the air between us until I feel radioactive.
By the time I leave the office, the hall is quiet. No clatter of skates on concrete, no banter spilling out of the locker room. Just the distant rhythm of weights clanging in the gym.
I follow the sound, keeping to the edge of the doorway.
Ollie’s there. Flat on his back, sweat darkening the neckline of his shirt, grimacing as Jonno adjusts his leg into a stretch band. His jaw is locked, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if sheer willpower alone will keep his hip from shattering under the pressure.
Mia stands nearby, arms folded, her expression a careful balance of stern and encouraging. “Ease into it, Ollie. Don’t force range you don’t have yet.”
“Feels fine,” he grits.
Jonno shoots him a look that could peel paint. “Feels fine until it tears again. Work with me, not against me.”
From my spot by the door, I can see every line of tension in Ollie’s body. His hands fist at his sides, muscles trembling with the effort not to fight them. He looks like a caged animal, barely tolerating the leash.
And yet, when his gaze flicks sideways, it finds me. Just for a heartbeat. His lips don’t move, but I feel the weight of the silent words anyway. Thank you.
The lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe.
Before I can step inside, voices drift from farther down the hall.
“Discipline, Murph,” Coach’s tone is sharp, clipped. “You know better than to put teammates at risk.”
“All I did was finish a check,” Murphy says, his tone smooth, too innocent. “If Ollie can’t handle contact, maybe he shouldn’t be back in the mix yet.”
My fists clench. He knows Ollie isn’t cleared for the ice, knows rehab will take weeks. He’s twisting it, making it sound like weakness.
“You play clean where the team is concerned,” Coach says flatly, “or you sit. That’s not an idle threat.”
Murphy’s laugh echoes, lazy and mocking. “Message received, Coach.”
My blood burns, but I keep still. If I storm in now, it’ll only prove Murphy’s point, that I’m a distraction, a problem. So, I stand there, my nails biting half-moons into my palm, and swallow the fury.
When I glance back into the gym, Jonno is easing Ollie off the stretch band, muttering instructions about ice packs and rest. Ollie pushes himself up, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. His face is pale, pain leaking through the cracks of his pride, but he doesn’t complain.
He never complains.
I slip into the stands later, pulling out my notebook, pretending to jot down practice notes when really, I’m just holding myself together. The rookies shuffle past without eye contact. Dylan throws me a small, almost apologetic wave. The silence speaks louder than words.
And then Murphy. Last out of the gym, towel slung around his neck, smirk sharp enough to cut. He doesn’t bother with words this time. Just a long, deliberate look that says everything he wants me to hear. You don’t belong. You never will.
I hold his stare until he turns the corner. Only then do my shoulders slump.
Back in the office, my hands tremble too much to write. I sit there, staring at the blank page, and force myself to breathe.
Murphy wants me gone. He’s won over half the locker room. And Ollie’s contract is hanging by a thread, and Murphy knows it. He’ll use every ounce of charm, every quip, to tip the scales against him now that he knows we’re together.
But here’s the thing: I’ve been hated before. I’ve been torn apart in headlines, dragged across comment sections, laughed at in rooms I wasn’t in. And I survived.
I open the laptop again. The line about survival blinks at me. This isn’t just a love story. It’s a story about survival.
I type another line beneath it.
And survival means knowing when to fight back.
My chest heaves as the words settle on the screen, sharp and certain. For the first time all day, I don’t feel like I’m drowning. I feel ready.
The hum of the rink shifts, equipment clattering back into cupboards, voices fading.
I close the laptop, shove it into my bag, and follow the sound down the corridor.
My footsteps echo off the concrete, every step a reminder that I don’t have to sit behind glass walls and watch this unfold. I can choose where I stand.
And I stand with Ollie. Always.
I find him in the recovery room. The harsh fluorescent lights can’t dim the exhaustion in his posture. He’s propped awkwardly on the padded table, ice pack strapped to his hip, hair damp from a rushed shower. He looks up when I step in, eyes heavy-lidded, and something in me clenches.
“You should be heading home,” he mutters, voice rough with fatigue. “Not babysitting me.”
“I’m not babysitting,” I counter, sliding the door shut behind me. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
He huffs, but it doesn’t quite reach a smile. “Place stinks of antiseptic. Hell of a date spot.”
I cross to him, dropping my bag on the chair. “Good thing I’m not here for the atmosphere.”
His gaze lingers on me, wary at first, then softening. He shifts slightly, wincing as the ice pack shifts. “Murphy?” he asks, reading me too easily.
“Still being Murphy,” I say flatly. “But I’m not giving him the satisfaction of rattling me.”
For a long beat, he studies me. His fingers twitch against the edge of the table, like he’s resisting the urge to reach for me. I don’t give him the choice, I take his hand, slotting mine into it, threading our fingers together until his grip finally tightens.
His shoulders drop like he’s been holding himself upright on sheer stubbornness alone. “I hate that you’re in the middle of this.”
“I put myself here,” I remind him softly. “Because I want to be. With you.”
The words settle between us, heavy and simple and true. His jaw flexes, like he’s holding back everything he doesn’t know how to say. So, I step closer, resting my free hand on his knee, grounding him.
“You’re not alone in this, Ollie,” I whisper. “Not with the hip, not with the team, not with Murphy. I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes close briefly, lashes damp against flushed skin. When they open again, the steel in them nearly undoes me. “You’re too good to me.”
“Or maybe,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across his knuckles, “you’re finally getting what you deserve.”
He exhales a shaky laugh, the sound more broken than amused. But he doesn’t let go. He holds on like I’m the only solid thing in a world tilting sideways.
And for once, I don’t feel like a ghost in someone else’s story. I feel like his.
We sit there until the rink falls silent, until the ice pack drips lukewarm and his grip loosens with exhaustion. I stay anyway. Because if survival means fighting back, then this, us, together, unshaken, is how I win.