Chapter 45 Chloe
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHLOE
The kettle clicks off, steam fogging the small kitchen window, and Ollie is already moving before I can stop him.
He limps, careful but stubborn, pouring boiling water into my mug like nothing’s wrong.
His T-shirt is rumpled, hair sticking up at the back, and still he’s fussing over how I take my tea, sliding the spoon around until the colour’s just right.
“Sit,” I tell him, half exasperated, half in awe.
He waves me off, one corner of his mouth quirking. “I can handle a bloody kettle, Chlo.”
I bite back the reminder that handling a kettle and rehabbing a torn hip flexor aren’t exactly the same thing.
Instead, I let him hand me the mug, warmth from the ceramic seeping into my palms. He collapses onto the sofa beside me with a small wince he pretends I don’t see.
The telly hums quietly in the background, but it’s just noise.
This is our rhythm now. Me fussing over his physio schedule, making sure he stretches when he’s meant to, eats what Mia recommended, doesn’t sneak out to the gym for extra reps.
Him fussing over everything else, my tea, what I’ve eaten, whether I’m getting any sleep.
It’s a domestic sort of tug-of-war, unspoken and fragile, and I don’t hate it.
But beneath it, there’s the same constant dread. Every time his hand brushes mine when he passes me the remote, every time I see him grit his jaw against pain, I wonder how much longer we can keep this bubble intact. The rink waits for both of us, and the rink is no bubble.
By the time we get there, the hum of everyday chaos is already in full swing. Skates clatter against benches, pucks ring off boards, voices echo down the corridor. Ollie heads toward the treatment wing with his crutches and a tight nod at the lads he passes. Some of them nod back. Some don’t.
I sling my satchel over my shoulder and follow, notebook already in hand.
The habit steadies me, pen against paper, capturing what I see.
That’s what I’m supposed to be here for.
To tell the story. Not to react when two rookies glance my way and whisper behind their gloves.
Not to snap when Murphy strides past, not even sparing me a look, his laughter bright and easy for the boys around him while the air chills in his wake.
I keep my eyes on Ollie through the glass window of the physio room.
He’s grimacing while Mia corrects his posture on the resistance bands.
My pen moves quickly, words forming without me even thinking: Resilience isn’t loud.
It’s repetition. Quiet. A man choosing, again and again, to push against the pain instead of giving in to it.
That’s what I want to capture, not gossip, not whispers. The fight behind the curtain. The man no one gets to see, except me.
“Still scribbling, I see.”
The voice makes my stomach jolt. Sophie.
She’s standing a little off to the side, hair scraped into a bun, jumper sleeves rolled to her elbows and Finn balanced on her hip. For a second, I brace for the usual icy dismissal and thinly veiled barbs. Instead, her gaze flicks between me and the physio room.
“I don’t want to chat,” I say automatically.
“Good. Neither do I.” Her mouth tilts, not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “But I’ll say this: I don’t like you. I’m not going to pretend we’ll ever be friends. That ship sailed two seasons ago when you tried to wreck my life.”
The bluntness knocks the air out of me. I clutch my notebook tighter. “I know.”
“But,” She adjusts Finn on her hip, shifting her weight. “I’m secure with Murphy now. More than I’ve ever been. And whatever vendetta he thinks he’s carrying, it’s boring the hell out of me. I’ll speak to him. Get him to lay off.”
I blink, words tangling in my throat. “Why?”
“Because he’s wasting his energy. And frankly, you’re not worth the space in his head anymore. And I just want to him back to his usual easy going, witty self.”
It stings, but there’s something almost freeing in it too. She doesn’t say it cruelly, just factually, like she’s drawing a line under the past. Sophie adjusts Finn again, swapping him to the other hip, then she nods toward Ollie, who’s still grimacing under Mia’s careful eye.
“He’s got enough to deal with. Don’t make him choose between proving himself and protecting you.”
Then she’s gone, brisk steps echoing down the corridor as she heads out to find Murphy. I exhale slowly, the words settling in my chest. She doesn’t forgive me. She never will. But she’s going to try to soften Murphy’s grip, and that, unexpected as it is, feels like something close to mercy.
The rest of the day is a blur of note-taking, Ollie’s stubborn grunts during exercises, the steady drip of whispers I try not to hear.
By the time we leave, the floodlights are glowing against the dusk.
Ollie grips the crutch handles tighter, jaw set against the limp.
I want to tell him what Sophie said. But I don’t. Not yet.
That night, his flat feels too quiet. We’re sprawled on his sofa, him with an ice pack on his hip, me with my notebook closed but balanced on my knees. The telly flickers, half-forgotten.
“Chlo.” His voice is low, rougher than usual.
I hum, not trusting my own voice.
“Do you regret it? Us?” His eyes are on me now, searching, sharp in a way that makes my throat ache. “You’ve been dragged through enough already. Everyone looking at you sideways. Murphy making your life hell. You could’ve walked away a hundred times by now.”
I set the notebook aside and shift closer, pressing my palm to his chest. His heart beats steady under my hand. “You really think I’d be here if I regretted it?”
“I don’t know.” His lips twitch like he hates admitting it. “Maybe you think it’s not worth it. Maybe I’m not worth it.”
My chest tightens. “Ollie. Look at me.”
He does. And I say it slow, clear, so he doesn’t miss a word. “I’m terrified. Every day. But I don’t regret us. Not one second. You’re worth it. Even when it costs. Especially then.”
His hand finds mine, big and warm, curling around it like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Maybe not,” I whisper, because I can’t lie. “But you’ve got me anyway.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, soft and broken all at once. He leans in, pressing his forehead to mine, and for a while neither of us moves. Just breathing, together, as if the world outside his flat doesn’t exist.
I can feel the weight of what waits for us. The rink, Murphy, the whispers, my father’s shadow I haven’t confessed yet. But right here, in this small, quiet moment, there’s only us. And for tonight, that’s enough.