14. Olivia
14
OLIVIA
I wake up in my apartment, the morning light streaming through the thin curtains. My mind is a whirlwind, replaying every moment from last night. Liam's bright blue eyes, the way he looked at me before pulling me into that kiss. The passion, the connection—it felt so real, so right. But now, in the stark light of day, guilt gnaws at me.
I roll out of bed, padding to the kitchen in my worn slippers. Coffee first. Maybe caffeine will untangle this mess in my head. As I wait for the coffee to brew, I spot Oscar standing by the refrigerator.
"Don't give me that look." I say to the small dog that licks his own ass, yet seems to be staring at my like I'm Hester Prynne from the Scarlet Letter.
"Who are you to judge me? You'd probably be a horndog too If I hadn't gotten you neutered after I found you."
That's it, I'm losing it. I'm sitting here validating my sexual encounter with a dog. I pace the tiny kitchen, my thoughts bouncing between exhilaration and regret.
"What were you thinking, Olivia?" I mutter to myself. "You crossed a line. A big, glaring line."
The smell of fresh coffee fills the air, grounding me for a moment. I pour a cup and take a sip, savoring the warmth. It does little to calm my nerves.
I grab my phone from the counter and scroll through my messages. Nothing from Liam. Not that I expected anything; he's got his team to focus on. Still, a small part of me hoped...
"Get it together," I whisper, setting the phone down with more force than necessary.
Two cups of coffee and a cheese danish later I'm at my desk. I stare at my half-written article, the cursor blinking accusingly. I try to write objectively about Liam's leadership skills, but every sentence feels tainted by my intimate knowledge of him. My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating. I delete and rewrite paragraphs multiple times, frustrated by my inability to separate my personal and professional lives.
"Liam Makar leads the Wolves with an intensity that..." No, that's too personal. Delete.
"Under Makar's leadership, the team has seen a significant improvement in their defensive strategies..." Boring. Delete.
I sigh and lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. The memory of last night refuses to fade. His touch, his kiss—it's all too fresh.
My phone buzzes on the desk. I pick it up, hoping for a distraction. It's a text from Sophie.
Sophie: How's the article going?
I roll my eyes. Trust her to check in at the worst possible moment.
Me: Terribly. Can't write a damn thing without thinking about him.
Sophie: Which "him"? You've got quite a few on your plate lately ;)
I groan and type back quickly.
Me: Not helping!
Sophie: Seriously though, you need to clear your head. Go for a run or something.
Me: Maybe later. I don't want my cheese danish to be consumed for nothing. Need to get this done first.
I put my phone down and stare at the screen again. My mind wanders back to the café with Liam, his eyes locked onto mine as we talked about his responsibilities as captain.
"Focus, Olivia," I mutter to myself.
I type again: "Makar's ability to read the game and make split-second decisions has been pivotal for the Wolves this season."
Better. Not great, but better.
I sit in the stands watching the Wolves' practice unfold below. The tension on the ice is palpable. Liam, usually so precise and commanding, seems off his game. He misses passes he'd normally nail with ease, his frustration evident in every terse movement.
"Come on, Liam," I whisper under my breath, willing him to focus.
Noah keeps glancing at Liam, concern etched across his face. His own drills are executed flawlessly, but it's clear his mind is elsewhere as well. He skates over to Liam during a break, their conversation animated but hushed.
"What’s going on with you today?" Noah's voice carries just enough for me to catch the tail end.
"Nothing," Liam snaps back, a rare edge to his tone. "Just... tired."
I feel a pang of guilt twist in my stomach. My presence here, the interactions I’ve had with them—it’s starting to affect the team dynamic. I’ve become more than just a reporter; I’m a distraction.
Ethan's frustration is even more apparent. His aggressive playing style borders on reckless today. He slams into the boards after missing a shot, cursing under his breath. When he catches sight of me watching from the stands, his expression darkens further.
Coach Bergman blows his whistle, signaling the end of practice. The players gather at the bench, and I can see the tension rippling through them like an electric current.
I linger by the exit of the rink, watching the players disperse. I didn't stick around to listen to the sermon Bergman was about to preach. But judging from the extra octave his voice jumped, I would imagine it wasn't good. The weight of last night's decisions feels like an anchor in my chest. As the sound of skates scraping on ice fades, I overhear Coach Bergman talking with his assistant near the locker room entrance.
"The first line's chemistry is crucial for winning the cup," Bergman says, his voice low but firm. "Any disruption could cost us everything."
His assistant nods. "Makar, Kane, and Reynolds need to be in sync. I don;t know what has their panties in a wad, but we can't afford any distractions."
A wave of panic crashes over me. I grip my notebook tighter, my knuckles white. My actions could jeopardize not just my career but the team's success.
I take a deep breath and step away from the door, determination hardening within me. I have to distance myself, for their sake and mine.
Once in my car, I pull out my phone and draft an email to Hartgove:
Subject: Adjusted Interview Plan
Hi,
I've decided to conduct the rest of my interviews over the phone and avoid attending practices in person. I think it will help maintain objectivity and minimize any potential disruptions for the team. I'll send you updates as I get them.
Best,
Olivia
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
On the drive home, I replay every interaction with Liam, Noah, and Ethan in my mind, each memory a painful reminder of how far I've strayed from professionalism. This was supposed to be about the story—about proving myself as a journalist—not getting entangled in a complicated web of emotions.
When I arrive back at my apartment, I set up my laptop at the kitchen table and start scheduling phone interviews with other team members and staff. Each call feels like another step towards reclaiming control over my career.
I close my laptop and lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The lines between personal and professional have blurred too much already; it's time to redraw them.
For everyone's sake.
Chapter 15- Rodeo