Chapter 42 Ollie
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
OLLIE
The apartment is quiet when we step inside, the kind of quiet that presses against your ears after the endless noise of the rink.
I kick off my trainers by the door, tugging my hoodie over my head with a hiss when my hip protests the motion.
Chloe’s already moving around, setting her bag down, flicking on the small lamp that throws the place into a warm amber glow.
It feels like another world in here. No whistles. No sharp blades on ice. No Murphy muttering his poison behind gritted teeth. Just Chloe.
She looks up, catching me watching her, and the corner of her mouth tugs upward. “What?”
I shake my head, lowering myself gingerly onto the sofa. “Just wondering how I got so bloody lucky.”
Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t answer straight away. Instead, she pads over, curling herself into the space beside me, tucking her knees under her. Her hair brushes my shoulder, and the scent of her shampoo, citrus and something sweeter I can never quite place, fills the air.
“Lucky?” she repeats eventually, tilting her head so her gaze catches mine.
“Yeah,” I murmur, fingers tracing idle patterns on her thigh. “Lucky you’re still here. Lucky you haven’t bolted.”
Her breath hitches, so soft I almost miss it. “You really think I’d run?”
I swallow hard, thumb brushing the seam of her jeans. “Sometimes. Not because of you. Because… well, look at the mess. My hip’s a question mark. Murphy’s circling like a shark. Coach is breathing down my neck. And you’ve got every reason to decide it’s not worth it.”
Her expression shifts to one of hurt, stubborn, and fierce all at once. She reaches up, cupping my jaw in her palm, forcing me to look her dead in the eye. “Ollie. I’m not going anywhere.”
The words slam into me with a force that makes my chest ache. I lean into her touch before I can think better of it, closing my eyes as the warmth of her hand grounds me.
When I open them again, the weight in the room has shifted. It’s softer, slower. She’s watching me like I’m something worth holding onto. And maybe, just maybe, I can believe it.
I brush a kiss against her temple, then her cheek, lingering until she turns her face and her lips catch mine.
The kiss is unhurried, a slow burn that sinks beneath my skin.
No desperation, no frantic edge like the showers, like the hallway.
Just her, steady and sure, pulling me closer without saying a word.
Her fingers slip under the hem of my T-shirt, grazing my stomach. The touch is light but enough to make me shiver. I breathe into her mouth, catching her lower lip between mine before pulling back just enough to rest my forehead against hers.
“You sure?” I ask, voice rough. “We don’t have to,”
She presses another kiss to silence me. “I’m sure.”
We move together like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Clothes shed with quiet laughter, soft kisses peppered across skin, her hands careful around my hip but never making me feel fragile. She makes me feel whole when everything else has been tearing me apart.
Later, when we’re tangled under the blanket, her head on my chest and my arm curved around her back, the noise in my skull is quiet for the first time in weeks.
“Does it hurt?” she murmurs against my skin.
“Only when I’m stupid,” I admit.
She lifts her head, meeting my eyes. “Then stop being stupid.”
A laugh breaks out of me, surprising even myself. “Bossy.”
“Practical,” she counters. But her smile is soft, not sharp.
I pull her closer, pressing a kiss into her hair. “I’m scared, you know.”
“I know.”
“Not just about the hip. About us. About everything.”
Her fingers trace lazy circles on my chest, soothing. “Then we’ll be scared together. But I’m not letting you push me away because of it.”
I close my eyes, holding her tighter, letting the certainty in her voice settle where my own doubts live. Maybe she’s stronger than both me and Murphy put together.
The next morning, I wake before she does. Sunlight filters through the blinds, striping across her bare shoulder where it peeks out from the duvet. She’s curled toward me, lashes brushing her cheeks, lips parted just slightly. Peaceful. Untouchable.
For a moment, I let myself just watch. Commit this to memory. Because I know the day won’t stay this soft. It never does.
By the time she stirs, I’ve slipped into the kitchen, balancing on the uninjured leg while I fuss with the cafetière. She pads in, hair a wild halo, drowning in one of my T-shirts.
“You’re up early,” she yawns.
“Couldn’t sleep.” I pour the coffee, sliding a mug across the counter toward her. “Figured I’d be domestic for once.”
She accepts it, wrapping both hands around the cup. “Careful. If you keep this up, I might start expecting it.”
I smirk, leaning on the counter. “Maybe that’s the plan.”
We drink in comfortable silence, the kind of silence I didn’t think I’d ever have with anyone. She’s the one who breaks it.
“What’s next for you?” she asks quietly. “With the team, I mean.”
I stare into my mug. “Rehab. Watching from the sidelines. Trying not to lose my bloody mind while Murphy sharpens his knives.”
Her brows knit together. “You’re not going to let him win.”
“Doesn’t feel like I’ve got a choice sometimes.” I scrub a hand over my face. “He’s one of the golden boys. I’m the liability with the glass hip and the girl he hates. If it comes down to choosing between us…”
“They won’t,” she cuts in firmly. “And even if they did, you’re worth more than that. More than him.”
Her faith is like a spotlight I don’t know how to stand under. But I want to. For her.
I round the counter, taking her free hand. “Then I’ve got to prove it. To them. To myself.”
She squeezes my fingers, eyes steady on mine. “We’ll prove it. Together.”
By the time we make it to the rink later that day, my mood has steadied into something sharper. The locker room is a mess of chatter, but the shift in atmosphere when I limp in isn’t subtle. Conversations cut short. Eyes flicker away. Murphy’s smirk spreads like oil on water.
Jacko’s the one who crosses the room, clapping a hand on my shoulder with the kind of easy confidence I can’t fake. “Rehab hero’s here,” he says, loud enough for the others to hear. “Don’t let the crutches fool you, he could still bench-press half the bloody league.”
It draws a few laughs, the tension cracking. But Murphy leans back on the bench, arms folded, eyes fixed on me. “Yeah. Just don’t ask him to skate. We might need a stretcher again.”
The rookies chuckle nervously. The venom in his tone isn’t lost on anyone.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t rise. Not here. Not now.
Jacko shoots him a glare before steering me toward the physio wing. His voice drops low enough only I can hear. “Ignore him. He’s looking for blood. Don’t give him yours.”
I nod stiffly, though the words sit heavy. Chloe was right, I can’t let Murphy write the ending to this.
But as I lower myself onto the table and Mia straps me in for another round of exercises, the burn in my hip isn’t the only thing I feel. It’s the fire in my chest, equal parts fear and determination.
Because if survival means knowing when to fight back, then I’m ready.
And this time, I won’t be fighting alone.