Chapter 50 Chloe
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHLOE
The weeks after Murphy and Sophie’s engagement party slip by in a blur of rink time, rehab sessions, and late nights at Ollie’s flat or at mine.
Something shifted that night, subtle, but I can feel it.
The tension in the locker room isn’t gone, not completely, but it’s softer around the edges.
Murphy still can’t help a sarcastic jab here and there, but it’s tempered, almost self-aware.
The rookies don’t laugh as hard anymore. Sometimes they don’t laugh at all.
For the first time since I walked into this job, I don’t feel like I’m stealing space that isn’t mine.
Most evenings, Ollie and I collapse onto his sofa, him with ice strapped to his hip, me with my laptop balanced on my knees.
My draft has swollen into something bigger than I imagined at the start, more than stats and game reports.
It’s the story of resilience, of what it costs to fight your way back into something you love.
And now, with the season creeping toward its close, I’m almost ready to hand it in.
The cursor blinks on the final line, daring me to admit it’s finished. Almost. I tell myself one more pass, one more round of edits, one more week to make sure I’ve done justice to the story, to the team and to him.
Ollie sometimes teases me about how many sticky notes I’ve plastered around his living room. You’re nesting, he says, mock-accusing, while he makes tea strong enough to strip paint. But when he thinks I’m not looking, he reads the pages over my shoulder, jaw set, eyes soft.
I try not to think too much about my father.
His silence has been unnerving, but I cling to the fragile hope that when he reads what I’ve written, when he sees how careful, how balanced, how honest it is, he’ll approve.
And maybe then, when the season ends, I can move on cleanly.
Close this chapter, start a new one. On my terms.
But hope is dangerous. And I know better than anyone that my father doesn’t always play fair.
Which is why, tonight, standing in the glittering hall of the Raptors’ sponsor gala, with Ollie across the room in his sharp suit and Sophie muttering sharp one-liners at my side, I tell myself it’s just one more night of playing the part.
Smile. Take notes. Stay invisible. Keep it all under control.
The gala is the sort of event that makes me want to disappear into the wallpaper, because the memory of Murphy-gate still lives large in my head.
Shiny glassware, too much champagne, women in glittering dresses that look like they cost more than my rent.
I stand near the edge of the room with Sophie, both of us nursing orange juice because neither of us feels like playing the part of “cheerful plus-one” tonight.
“Don’t look now,” Sophie mutters, eyes glinting, “but Murphy’s trying to charm the CEO of an energy drink company. He’s about one sentence away from agreeing to name our next child after their latest flavour.”
I snort into my glass. “Tropical Blast Murphy. Has a ring to it.”
She smirks. “Better than Sour Grape.”
For a blissful five minutes, I let her sarcasm shield me. I can see Ollie across the room, shoulders broad in his suit jacket, listening politely as two sponsors quiz him about recovery timelines. He looks steady. Confident, even. I’m proud of him, incredibly proud.
And then I hear it.
“…Miller money. Didn’t realise his girl was that Miller. Guess that explains the gig shadowing the team.”
The words carry, tossed casually between two staff members near the buffet table. My blood runs cold.
Ollie’s head snaps up. Not surprise, because he’s known for a while, but the flash of protectiveness is instant, the muscle in his jaw ticking as his eyes lock on mine. He excuses himself from the sponsors mid-sentence, striding across the room, voice pitched low but firm.
“Chlo. You don’t have to let them spin this.”
Too late. The whispers spread faster than spilled champagne. Jacko’s brows knit as he looks from me to Ollie. Murphy’s mouth actually drops open for once.
Sophie’s face goes sharp. “Well. Shit.”
I square my shoulders, pulse hammering. If this is going to explode, I’d rather set the charge myself.
“Yes,” I say, louder than I intend, so everyone can hear. My hands are trembling but my voice doesn’t waver. “My father is Charles Miller. One of the main investors in the team.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Jonno whistles under his breath. “Bloody hell.”
A rookie mutters something about nepotism, and Murphy of all people snaps, “Shut it. She’s put in more hours than half of you clowns.”
That shocks me almost as much as the reveal.
Still, the questions come.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Dylan asks, not cruelly, just confused.
“Because I didn’t want it to matter.” I force myself to meet every pair of eyes on me.
“I didn’t want his name, or his money, to define me.
Or Ollie. You think he’s fought this hard, come back from injury like this, just because of who he’s dating?
No. He’s earned every damn inch back on that ice. That’s his. Not my father’s.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Sophie claps once, sharp. “Well, I, for one, am thrilled. Finally explains your tragic dress sense at these events, you’re rebelling against Daddy’s bank account.”
A ripple of laughter breaks the tension.
Jacko steps forward, arms folded. “Don’t care who your old man is. You’ve been here, you’ve done the work, you’ve looked after Lila like she’s yours when we needed a hand with childcare. That’s what matters.”
Mia nods firmly beside him. “Seconded.”
Murphy, of all people, shrugs. “Long as Miller Senior doesn’t try to buy his way onto the line-up, I’m good.” He glances at Ollie, a rare flicker of sincerity there. “We’ve all got family baggage. This one just comes with a shinier price tag.”
The room exhales. The rookies glance at each other, chastened. And Ollie stays close, a steady weight at my side, his presence saying more than any words could. The hurt isn’t his, its mine, but the way the team closes ranks instead of splintering eases the sting.
Later, after the speeches and the fake smiles, Coach finds us. Pulling Ollie into a side corridor, voice low.
“You’ve proven you want it, kid. That’s all I needed to see. Contract’s yours for the next three years. We’ll sign it on Monday.”
I’m stealthily hovering just out of their eyeline but I can hear every word. Ollie doesn’t speak, just nods, jaw tight like he’s holding in every emotion at once.
When he finds me again, we head out into the cool night air, away from the clinking glasses and forced laughter. We stand beneath the glow of the marquee lights, my heels kicked off, his tie tugged loose.
“I should’ve told them sooner,” I say quietly.
He shakes his head. “No. You wanted to be seen as you. Not his daughter. I get that.” His hand finds mine, rough fingers lacing through. “Doesn’t mean it didn’t scare me.”
I press my forehead to his. “It scares me, too. But I’m not stepping away from you, Ollie. Not ever. The article will be done at the end of the season, and I’ll move on to whatever’s next. But us? That doesn’t end.”
For the first time all night, he smiles. A real one. The kind that reaches his eyes.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Because three more years of Raptors hockey feels a hell of a lot better knowing you’re in it with me.”
And for once, with all the noise behind us and the future ahead, I let myself believe it.
Later, as I settle into the quiet of Ollie’s flat, I let myself reflect on the season, on Ollie’s recovery, the slow thaw with the team, the tenuous peace with Murphy, and the story I’ve crafted.
I realise I’ve built something too. A life alongside him that’s earned, dishevelled and real.
My father’s shadow looms, yes, but it doesn’t define this. Not this.
I stretch on the sofa, Ollie’s arm around me, and allow the day’s tension to melt. The article will go in. The team’s healed enough to move forward. Ollie’s contract is safe. And I feel like I can step back, with my heart and my choices intact.
The season may end. Life may keep shifting. But tonight, we’re here. And for now, that’s everything.