Chapter 46 Ollie
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
OLLIE
The rubber mat under my trainers smells faintly of disinfectant and sweat.
Same as it always does. I grip the resistance band Jonno’s set up, shoulders tense, teeth clenched as I try to follow his rhythm.
Pull, hold, slow release. Again. Again. Every repetition drags fire down the muscles around my hip.
It’s not the sharp pain from the ice. It’s worse, in its own way, controlled, necessary, but relentless.
“Good,” Jonno says, crouched beside me, sharp-eyed as ever. “Keep your core engaged. Don’t cheat it, Ollie. You cheat it here, and you’ll pay on the ice.”
“I know,” I grunt, sweat already dripping down my temples. My hands twitch with the urge to rip the band out of the frame and hurl it across the gym. Instead, I grit my teeth and do another rep.
Mia watches from the corner, arms folded, clipboard in hand. She’s letting Jonno run me hard today, but I can feel her eyes on every movement. Like she’s waiting for me to crack.
I don’t crack. I won’t.
When Jonno finally gives me a nod to stop, I let the band slacken, chest heaving. My hip throbs, but I force my face blank. If I give anything away, they’ll pull me back another week, maybe two. I can’t afford it.
I grab my water bottle, chugging half of it in one go, when voices drift in from the corridor outside the gym. Laughter first, then Murphy’s familiar drawl, lighter than usual.
“…nah, I’m done wasting energy on the Romeo and Juliet bit. Sophie told me to snap out of it, and she’s right. Ollie’s a muppet, sure, but as Sophie pointed out, he’s our muppet. And if Chloe wants to put up with him limping around like an old man, that’s her business.”
The rookies chuckle, but this time it’s softer, less sharp. The edge is gone. No venom, no baiting, just Murphy being Murphy, a bit of banter tossed into the air like it used to be.
My grip on the bottle loosens. My jaw, clenched so long it aches, finally eases.
Jonno glances toward the doorway, brow lifting. Even Mia tilts her head, listening, then mutters under her breath, “About time.”
I set the bottle down gently this time, the thud a quieter thing.
For the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like Murphy’s words are aimed like knives.
Maybe Sophie really did knock some sense into him.
Maybe the guys will finally start following his lead back toward something that looks like unity.
Later, Coach calls me into his office.
The space is small, walls lined with framed photos of past wins and half-faded playbooks. He doesn’t look up right away, flipping through a file until finally his eyes settle on me.
“Close the door.”
I do, the click loud in the silence.
Coach leans back in his chair, arms folded, studying me like he’s measuring my worth in real time.
“You’ve had your share of noise around here, Ollie. Some of it your fault, most of it not. Perception matters, though. You’ve got to look locked in, even when you’re fighting your way back.”
I brace for the sting of another warning, but Coach’s voice softens a notch. “I spoke with Mia. She says you’re listening, sticking to the plan. That’s good. Stick with it and I’ll give you a shot at the away game. Limited ice time, no contact. But it’s a start.”
I nod, relief loosening the knot in my chest.
Coach adds, almost as an afterthought, “And for what it’s worth, Murphy’s tone has changed.
I’ve given him an ultimatum. He’s dropped the digs.
Team follows his lead, whether they admit it or not.
You keep your head down and keep working, things will level out.
” The words hit like a jolt. Hope. Fragile, dangerous hope.
“No contact?”
“None,” he repeats firmly. “You so much as flinch wrong, you’re back on the bench. Understood?”
I want to argue, want to demand more, but the look in his eyes tells me it’s not negotiable. So I nod, swallowing the pride that burns my throat. “Understood.”
“Good.” He closes the file. “I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t believe you’re ready, Ollie. I trust you to handle it.”
Back in the locker room, Jacko’s already there with a tin foil tray balanced on his knees. The smell hits me before I even sit down; biscuits, fresh, buttery.
“Stress baking again?” I mutter, dropping beside him.
He smirks. “Better than stress drinking. Try one before Murph eats the lot.”
I grab one, bite down. Warm, soft in the middle. He always gets it right.
“Look, guys talk. Always have, always will. But you heard it today, Murph’s easing up.
You know what that means? The rest of ’em will fall in line.
They want their team back. They want you back.
Don’t let one dodgy hip and a bit of drama convince you you’re on the outside.
He gave a rookie a bollocking for taking the piss earlier. You didn’t hear that from me.”
I let the words sink in. Jacko’s steady, uncomplicated in a way I envy. He doesn’t flinch from truth, but he doesn’t let it bury him either.
“I just hate sitting still,” I admit.
“Then don’t sit still,” Jacko shrugs. “Do the work. But do it smart. You’ll be skating again before you know it. And when you do, nobody’s gonna be talking about Chloe or Murphy or the bloody tabloid article. They’ll be talking about Ollie Taylor putting in the graft and making it count.”
The words land heavier than I expect. I finish the biscuit, crumbs clinging to my fingers, and nod once. “Thanks, mate.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” he says simply.
“It’s not been easy watching my best mate beat himself up.
Watching the team split down the middle like a bloody soap opera.
But you’ve got something most of these guys never get, someone who actually gives a shit about you outside of the rink. Don’t waste that.”
That evening, Chloe shows up at the flat with a bag of takeaway and her notebook tucked under her arm. She kicks off her shoes at the door like she’s been doing it forever and sets the food on the coffee table.
“You look wrecked,” she says softly.
“Feel it,” I admit, dropping onto the sofa with a groan.
She settles beside me, curling her legs under her. The smell of curry fills the air, but she doesn’t reach for it yet. Instead, she flips open her notebook.
“Want me to read you something?”
I arch a brow. “Homework?”
“Field notes,” she corrects, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s about you, actually.”
That shuts me up.
She starts to read, voice low and steady.
Words about resilience, about fighting when no one’s watching, about the difference between playing through pain and learning to heal through it.
She doesn’t look at me while she reads, just keeps her eyes on the page, but I can feel every line burrow under my skin.
When she finishes, the room is quiet. My chest feels tight. “You make me sound like I’m worth something.”
She finally meets my gaze. “That’s because you are.”
The lump in my throat makes it impossible to answer. So I do the only thing I can, slide closer, tucking her against my chest, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. My arm settles carefully around her shoulders, mindful of my hip, but once she relaxes into me the rest of the world fades.
For the first time all day, the noise in my head quiets.
By the time she leaves, the city outside is humming with late-night traffic. I stand at the window, watching the lights blur, her words still circling in my mind.
Nobody gets to dictate my story, not the whispers, not even the fear gnawing at my gut every time I think about contracts and ice time.
It’s on me. My work ethic. My love for the game. My choice to keep showing up, no matter how slow the climb feels.
And if Chloe can see something worth writing about in me, even broken, limping me, then maybe I can start to believe it too.