Chapter 48 Chloe
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHLOE
The first thing I notice when I step into the rink that morning isn’t the icy bite of the air or the familiar echo of pucks smacking against the boards. It’s the silence.
Not true silence, there’s still the chatter of players, the thud of skates on rubber matting, the distant hum of the Zamboni. But something is missing, and it takes me a moment to name it.
Murphy.
Not the man himself, he’s over by the benches, stretching his shoulders and tossing banter toward Dylan, but the sound of him, that constant background commentary that usually drips with disdain whenever I walk in. No barbs. No digs. No exaggerated sighs.
Instead, I catch him giving two rookies a look sharp enough to cut steel when they start whispering as I pass. He jerks his chin toward the ice like a drill sergeant. “Less gossip, more hustle. Move it.”
The rookies scramble, and Murphy doesn’t glance at me again.
I make a note of it in the margin of my pad, pencil pressing harder than I mean to. Murphy corralling rookies. Locker room tone shifting. Not trust. Not forgiveness. But something closer to peace.
It unsettles me, if I’m honest. Like a storm that’s passed without warning, leaving behind an uncanny calm.
I tuck myself onto a folding chair by the glass, scribbling observations while Mia guides Ollie through his rehab drills on the far side of the gym space.
He moves gingerly at first, cautious but determined.
Sweat darkens the back of his shirt within minutes, and I can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s pushing past the ache.
Every so often he flicks his gaze toward me. Not long stares, not distractions, just quick check-ins, little reminders that I’m here and that matters to him. And every time, I feel the tether between us tighten.
I’m so focused on him that I almost miss Sophie sliding into the seat beside me, her perfume sharp and sweet, her coat still buttoned against the chill.
“Well, if it isn’t the bad penny,” she says dryly, crossing her legs. “Can’t get rid of you no matter how many times we flip the coin.”
I blink at her. “Good morning to you too.”
Her smirk is sharp enough to rival Murphy’s, but there’s something softer in her eyes, something that makes me brace for impact.
“Relax,” she says, waving a hand. “This isn’t a drive-by. You’re useful, apparently. Who knew?”
“Useful?” I echo, unsure where this is going.
She leans closer, lowering her voice so only I can hear. “Murphy’s… trying. Emphasis on the ellipses. He’s not about to start knitting you a friendship bracelet, but he’s dialling it back. Schooling the rookies. Keeping the worst of his mouth shut. That’s you, by the way.”
I stare at her, trying to parse the layers of sarcasm. “That’s… good?”
“It’s a start,” Sophie says with a shrug. “But don’t expect sainthood. The man’s stubborn as hell, and a professional pain in the ass. I should know, I live and co-parent with him. Well, apparently, I’m marrying him, technically.”
Her engagement ring catches the light, and for a second, I see something vulnerable flicker across her expression. Then it’s gone, masked with another smirk.
“You’re like a bad habit, Miller,” she continues. “But apparently one he’s learning not to indulge in public.”
I don’t know what to say, so I default to honesty. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m not doing it for you, I’m doing it for Ollie.
And I just got tired of hearing the same recycled shit over breakfast.” She stands, brushing invisible lint from her coat.
“We’re throwing a celebration thingy. You and Ollie should come.
Take it as the olive branch it is. And maybe, try not to throw it back in his face, yeah? ”
Before I can respond, she’s already walking away.
I scribble another note in my pad: Sophie = reluctant ally. Murphy’s silence is her doing. Don’t squander it.
But the words blur as my phone buzzes against my thigh. I pull it out, and my stomach drops when I see the sender.
Miller Holdings.
Not my father himself, of course. He never dirties his hands with emails. But his office. His proxy. His shadow.
Chloe, it begins, cold as marble. Your review is scheduled for next week. We’ll need a comprehensive update on your article progress. Deliverables will be evaluated against the initial brief. Kindly remember this is a corporate contract, not a personal indulgence.
My throat tightens. I know what “not a personal indulgence” means. It means don’t risk the star winger.
It means the warning he gave me at the start of the season still hangs over us like a guillotine.
I close the email quickly, palms clammy against the phone. My pencil hovers uselessly above the paper, and for the first time all morning, I can’t focus on the rink. Not on Ollie’s steady grit, not on the rookies falling into line, not even on the silence where Murphy’s mockery used to be.
All I can hear is my father’s voice, quiet and lethal. Don’t lose me this deal, Chloe. Don’t lose me this team.
That night, Ollie’s flat is dimly lit, the only light coming from the soft glow of the lamp by his sofa. We’ve eaten and the dishes are still scattered on the counter, and now we’re curled up in bed, legs tangled, the air warm with the smell of him.
He’s quieter than usual, his breath steady but his eyes restless as they flick toward the ceiling.
“You don’t buy it, do you?” he says finally.
“Buy what?” I tilt my head, brushing a strand of hair out of his face.
“Murphy. This shift towards him being nice. He hasn’t had a go at you in a week. He even told the guys I’ve been grafting in rehab.” His mouth twists like he doesn’t know how to shape the words. “Feels wrong. Like waiting for the punchline.”
I trace a slow circle on his chest with my finger, right over the steady thump of his heart. “Maybe it’s not a punchline. Maybe it’s just growth. Or Sophie kicking him under the table until he gets the message.”
He huffs a laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not sure I can trust it.”
“Then don’t.” My voice is soft but steady. “You don’t need to trust Murphy. You just need to trust yourself. And your team. The rest, it’s background noise.”
His gaze finally drops to mine, heavy and searching. “You really think the team still believes in me?”
“I don’t think. I know.” I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the strength that’s still there, the stubborn heartbeat that refuses to quit. “You’re more than your hip. More than Murphy’s opinion. You’re Ollie fucking Taylor. And that’s enough.”
The silence stretches, warm and intimate. Then he takes my hand in his, threading our fingers together, holding tight like he’s afraid I’ll slip away.
He shifts beside me, restless, like the weight of something unsaid is pressing on his chest.
“It’s not the whispers I worry about anymore,” he says quietly. “It’s the future. My contract. If they decide I’m done, what am I then?”
The words hang heavy between us.
I tighten my grip on his hand. “You’re still you. Still Ollie. Still the man who fights harder than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“That won’t pay the bills,” he mutters, but the edge in his voice is thin, cracked.
“No,” I agree softly, “but it’s what makes people believe in you. It’s what makes me believe in you. And if The Raptors can’t see that, then they don’t deserve you.”
He lets out a shaky breath, eyes closing, forehead pressing to mine. “You make it sound simple.”
“It’s not simple,” I whisper. “But it’s true.”
Something in him softens then, a crack in the armour he wears so tightly. He pulls me closer, tucking me against his chest, and I feel the tension seep out of him in slow waves.
We lie there like that, hands clasped, bodies pressed together, until the weight of the day finally pulls us under.
I fall asleep to the steady rhythm of his breathing, the warmth of his body anchoring me against the cold certainty of my father’s looming shadow.
For now, that’s enough.