Chapter 47 Ollie
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
OLLIE
The band digs into my palms as I haul it tight against my chest. Sweat beads at my temple, sliding down my cheek, but I refuse to give in. Pull, hold, slow release. Jonno counts the beat out loud, voice steady and merciless.
“Five more.”
“Five?” I grit out, though my arms already feel like fire.
“Five,” he repeats, eyes narrowing. “Unless you want to be a passenger when you’re cleared.”
I don’t. The thought alone keeps me from dropping the band and storming out. I grind through the reps, hip screaming, shoulders burning, until Jonno finally signals for release. The band slaps back against the anchor point. I stand doubled over, chest heaving.
Mia’s perched on a box nearby, clipboard balanced on her knee. She doesn’t smile, but there’s the faintest nod of approval. “Better. Stronger.”
It should land like praise. It doesn’t. My brain twists it into a warning: better, but not enough. Stronger, but still one wrong movement away from snapping everything again.
Jonno crouches, tugging the band loose. “Your recovery curve’s on track, Ollie. Stay disciplined, you’ll be skating in no time.”
I mop my forehead with the hem of my shirt. “Yeah.”
The word tastes like ash. No time feels like forever when your whole identity is tied to ice.
Mia sets the clipboard aside. “Don’t roll your eyes. I’m saying this because it’s true. You’re not behind anymore. You’re right where you need to be.”
I try to swallow that down, but the fear still coils tight in my gut. One stumble, one strain, and everything I’ve fought for disappears.
When Jonno finally releases me, I limp toward the changing rooms, water bottle clutched like a lifeline. The ache in my hip isn’t sharp, not like the night it went, but it’s heavy, constant, reminding me with every step that I’m fragile. Weak. Replaceable.
Jacko’s already there, kit bag tossed at his feet, scrolling his phone like he owns the place. He glances up when I come in, grin tugging one side of his mouth. “You look like you’ve wrestled a bear.”
“Feels worse,” I mutter, dropping onto the bench with a groan. My thigh seizes and I bite back a curse.
Jacko puts the phone away, gives me a once-over. “You’re pushing harder. That’s good.”
“Or stupid,” I fire back, pulling at my laces even though I’ve got no skates on, just trainers. My hands need something to do, or they’ll shake. “Feels like I’m hanging on by a thread half the time.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re not. You’re putting the work in. Everyone sees it.”
I laugh, harsh. “Doesn’t matter if they see it. If management decides my hip’s a liability, I’m done. Contract’s up, career over. That’s it.”
Jacko frowns. “They’re not gonna cut you loose.”
“How do you know that?” The words rip out sharper than I intend, but I can’t stop. My chest feels tight, panic bubbling just under my skin. “How do you know I’m not just dead weight now? If they cut me, I don’t know who I am without this. Hockey’s all I’ve got.”
The locker room goes quiet after I spit it out. The kind of quiet that feels like confession, ugly and raw.
Jacko doesn’t flinch. He sits back, chewing on the words like he’s letting them settle before he answers.
“You’re Ollie Taylor. Best mate, pain in my arse, guy who can’t cook to save his life.
You’ve got more than hockey, whether you believe it yet or not.
But you’ll get your contract renewed. Trust me. ”
I want to. I want to believe him. But the fear claws harder because I don’t know if I can.
What I don’t notice is the figure paused just beyond the corner of the doorway, unseen. Coach. His footsteps retreat a second later, silent.
The locker room isn’t empty for long. A few rookies tumble in, voices loud, still buzzing from drills. Murphy’s among them, towel slung over his shoulder.
My spine stiffens. The old tension rises, weeks of digs, of smirks, of him making me the punchline.
But this time, something different happens. He tosses his towel onto the bench, looks straight at me, and smirks, but not cruelly. Almost awkwardly.
“Well, look who’s still alive after Jonno’s torture session.”
A couple of rookies chuckle.
Murphy rolls his eyes at them. “Don’t laugh, you lot. You try coming back from a busted hip and still look like that.” He gestures at me, mock-exasperated. “Ollie’s been grafting harder than any of you.”
The rookies blink, caught off guard. So am I.
Murphy claps one of them on the back. “You’d do well to follow his lead instead of snickering in the corridors.”
It’s not an apology. It’s not warm, or gentle. But it’s the closest thing I’ve heard from him in months. And the stunned silence that follows tells me the rest of the room clocked it too.
My throat tightens. I’m not ready to forgive him. Not by a long shot. But maybe Sophie’s words finally sank in. Maybe the tide’s turning.
By the time I make it back to the flat, every muscle in my body’s vibrating with exhaustion. I barely get the door open before Chloe steps inside, arms full, takeaway in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, her bag slung heavy on her shoulder.
“You look like death,” she says cheerfully, brushing past me toward the kitchen.
“Feel it.” I toe off my trainers and follow, watching her set everything down.
She glances back, eyes narrowing when she sees how stiffly I’m moving. “Sit.”
I do, dropping onto the sofa with a grunt. My hip throbs, demanding attention.
Chloe disappears into the bedroom, then returns with a small jar. She waves it in the air like a prize. “Mia gave me this. Balm for your hip.”
My brows rise. “And since when are you qualified to play physio?”
She smirks, kneeling on the floor in front of me. “Since about five minutes ago. Shirt off.”
My laugh’s hoarse, half disbelief, half arousal. “Bossy.”
“Efficient,” she counters, tugging at my tee until I peel it off.
The first touch of her hands makes me groan, a sharp intake of breath rattling out of me.
The balm’s cool, but her palms are hot, steady, sliding in firm, deliberate circles over the sore muscle of my hip.
At first, it’s careful, just pressure and relief but then her fingers linger too long, nails grazing higher, teasing over skin that has nothing to do with rehab.
“Chloe…” My voice comes out guttural, thick with warning I don’t mean.
“Mm?” She tilts her head like she’s innocent, but her eyes burn, wicked, as she shifts onto the sofa beside me. One smooth motion, she swings a leg over, settling astride me. The thin stretch of her leggings presses against my bare thighs, and suddenly I can’t think of a single reason to stop her.
Heat slams into me, sharp and fast. My hands clamp to her hips, fingers digging into the curve of her ass as though holding her still will stop the fire spreading. It doesn’t. It makes it worse.
She leans down, lips ghosting over mine once before she claims me properly. The kiss is soft for half a second, then it changes and becomes hungrier, wetter, the kind that strips me raw. The balm’s abandoned on the table, forgotten, as she grinds down against the hard line of me through my shorts.
I tear at her top, shoving it up over her head, baring smooth skin and the lace of her bra. My mouth is on her instantly, sucking hard at the swell of her breast, dragging my teeth just enough to make her gasp. Her hips roll in response, slow at first, then rougher, and I’m gone.
“Fuck,” I growl into her skin, hauling her closer. “You’re killing me.”
She only laughs, breathless, tugging at my waistband until she’s shoving my shorts down. My cock springs free, hard and aching, and she strokes me once, twice, with a grip that makes my whole body shudder.
I can’t wait. I don’t want to.
I push her leggings down, panties with them, and she lifts just enough to help before sinking back into my lap. For a heartbeat, she hovers over me, slick heat brushing the head of my cock. Then she lowers herself onto me in one long, slow slide that rips a guttural sound straight out of my chest.
“Jesus Christ,” I choke, clutching her hips. She’s tight, wet, perfect, and the moment she’s seated fully, I can’t hold still. I drive up into her, hard enough the sofa groans, her cry muffled when she crashes her mouth back onto mine.
Her nails claw down my back, her body riding me with a rhythm that has me swearing, begging. Each roll of her hips drags me deeper, and all I can do is meet her thrust for thrust, burying myself in her until nothing exists outside this.
It’s rough, desperate, everything I didn’t know I’d been holding back. Sweat slicks our skin, the sound of it obscene, the wet slap of flesh, the low grunts tearing out of me, her whimpers breaking into moans as I fuck her harder.
“Say it,” I rasp against her ear, thrusting up so deep she trembles around me. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” she gasps, nails digging into my shoulders. “All yours.”
The words snap something in me. My pace turns relentless, hips slamming up, her body arching beautifully as she cries out. I feel her tighten, quivering, and then she breaks apart around me, shuddering through her orgasm with a scream that has my own release ripping through me seconds later.
I spill into her with a growl, holding her down against me, every muscle locked as wave after wave crashes over me. It’s raw, consuming, like nothing else I’ve ever felt.
When it’s over, she collapses onto my chest, both of us breathless, soaked in sweat. My cock still throbs inside her, aftershocks twitching through us as we cling to each other.
The untouched curry is still on the table, the room smelling faintly of spice and sex. But none of that matters. The only thing I can taste is her, the only thing I can feel is the weight of her body on mine, grounding me in a way rehab, contracts, or hockey never could.
I bury my face in her hair, breathing hard, holding her like if I let go, the whole world might crash back in. For now, it’s just us.
And maybe that’s what I need to remember. Hockey matters, the contract matters, but none of it means anything without this. Without her.