18. Olivia
18
OLIVIA
I sit on my couch, surrounded by a sea of notes and recordings for my article. Oscar sits across from me on the recliner. My own damn dog doesn't even want to be around me, and I can't say I blame him.
My laptop rests on the coffee table, the cursor blinking at me impatiently. I try to focus, but memories of Liam's laugh, Noah's boyish grin, and Ethan's unexpected vulnerability keep intruding.
Liam's kiss was commanding, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation. The way he pulled me into his world, making me feel like the center of it. I shake my head, trying to push the thought away.
Then there's Noah. His gentle touch, the way he made me laugh even when I felt like crying. Our kiss was softer, more tentative, but no less impactful. His warmth is like a blanket I didn't know I needed.
And Ethan... brooding Ethan with his dark eyes that seem to see right through me. His kiss was raw and intense, full of unspoken words and emotions he rarely shows anyone. He’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but nothing comes out. How can I write objectively about these men when my heart is tangled up in each of them?
A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts. "Who could that be?" I mutter to myself as I get up to answer it.
I open the door to find Sophie standing there with a bag of takeout and a knowing smile. "Oscar honey, I'm home!" She calls out as the little wirey ball of fluff runs to her pawing her legs. "Figured you could use some company, but truthfully I just came to visit Oscar." she says, reaching down to scratch him behind the ears and brushing past me into the apartment.
"You're the best, bitch." I admit, following her to the kitchen where she starts unpacking containers of Chinese food. "I hope you brought Ice Cream, and Bridesmaids."
She fishes for something in her tote bag and pulls out both. "Uhm, duh. I've even got Lizzo's album in rotation on the playlist."
"Thank God for you." I say, as I place a big soppy kiss on her forehead.
"Ew… so," Sophie begins, handing me a pair of chopsticks, "how's the article coming along?"
I groan, sinking onto a barstool. "It's not. Every time I try to write about Liam, Noah, or Ethan, all I can think about is... well..."
"Them," Sophie finishes for me with a smirk.
"Yeah." I pick at my food, not really hungry.
Sophie leans against the counter, her expression turning serious. "You need to figure out what you want, Liv. This isn't just about your career anymore."
I sigh heavily. "I know."
"Have you talked to any of them about how you feel?" she asks gently.
"No," I admit. "How can I? They're all focused on the playoffs right now."
Sophie nods thoughtfully. "True. But they’re also adults who can handle complicated situations."
"Maybe," I say quietly. "But I'm not sure I can."
She reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand. "You'll figure it out. Just take it one step at a time."
I nod, appreciating her support even though my mind is still a mess of conflicting emotions and professional obligations.
We eat in companionable silence for a while before Sophie speaks up again. "You know you don't have to decide anything right now, right? Just focus on your article and let things unfold naturally."
"Yeah," I say with a small smile. "Just pass the damn ice cream and a spoon."
The press box is a sea of activity, but I force myself to stay focused on my notes. My eyes, however, keep drifting to the ice. Liam and Noah are looking like the second string of a damn little league team. Liam's usually impeccable blocks are missing their mark, and Noah's passes are sloppy. Ethan, ever the lone wolf, tries to pick up the slack, but his solo attempts at the goal are futile without Liam's defense and Noah's precision.
"What's going on with them?" murmurs another reporter beside me.
I don't respond, but the guilt gnaws at me. This tension between them... it's my fault.
On the ice, Liam slams into an opponent with more force than necessary, knocking the puck loose. He sends it flying towards Noah, but Noah isn't there to catch it. Instead, the opposing team intercepts and races down the rink.
"Damn it!" I mutter under my breath.
Ethan skates in from the left wing, eyes narrowed in determination. He weaves through defenders with ease, but without support from his teammates, his shots on goal are blocked every time.
"Come on, guys," I whisper, willing them to find their rhythm.
The crowd groans as another missed pass sails past Noah. He throws a frustrated glance at Liam, who shakes his head in exasperation. Their chemistry is shot.
Ethan tries again, this time managing to get close enough for a powerful shot. The puck ricochets off the goalie's pad with a loud thud. Ethan's frustration is palpable as he skates back into position.
The period ends with a dismal score for the Wolves. As they head to the locker room, I catch glimpses of their faces—Liam's jaw set in anger, Noah's brows furrowed in confusion, and Ethan's eyes dark with frustration.
"Olivia," says Tom, one of the senior reporters, snapping me out of my thoughts. "You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," I lie. "Just... tired."
He nods sympathetically. "This team needs to get its act together if they want to make it through the playoffs."
"Yeah," I agree quietly.
As the next period begins, I resolve to keep my distance even more. My presence here has already done enough damage. I focus on jotting down observations for my article but can't help sneaking glances at the ice.
Liam and Noah continue to struggle with coordination. Their timing is off; plays that should be second nature now seem like Herculean tasks. Ethan's attempts to compensate only highlight the disarray further.
"Liam looks like he's about to have a coronary," comments another reporter nearby.
I bite my lip, knowing they're right. This is not just about hockey anymore—it's personal.
The final buzzer sounds, signaling another loss for the Wolves. The disappointment in the arena is tangible as fans file out silently. I pack up my things slowly, my heart heavy with guilt and confusion.
As I leave the press box, I hear snippets of conversations around me—fans lamenting the team's performance and analysts dissecting every missed opportunity. It’s all too much.
I need to fix this somehow before it destroys everything—for them and for me.
I make my way to the post-game press conference, my notebook open but my mind elsewhere. I find a spot in the back, hoping I can blend in and not be seen. Liam steps up to the podium, his jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room. When they land on me, there's a flicker of something—hurt, confusion, maybe both. I force myself to look away.
"Captain Makar," someone starts, "can you walk us through the defensive breakdown in the third period?"
Liam's eyes narrow slightly. "We didn't execute our plays well enough," he says curtly. "We'll review the footage and make adjustments."
"Any specific areas you're focusing on?" they press.
"Our transition game needs work," he replies, his tone clipped. "And we need to communicate better on the ice."
I jot down his responses, all the while avoiding his gaze. The next reporter jumps in with a question about the power play, giving me a moment to breathe.
Noah is next at the podium. His usual easy smile is absent, replaced by a frown. "Noah," Tom begins, "can you talk about the missed opportunities tonight?"
He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, we had some chances we didn't capitalize on. It's frustrating."
"Anything you plan to change for the next game?" he asks.
"Just gotta keep working hard, prioritize things," he says simply. His eyes meet mine briefly, and I see a flicker of hurt there too.
The press finishes their questions for Noah rather quickly and move on to Ethan. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Ethan," a young woman says, already trying way too hard to gain his attention. "Can you comment on your performance tonight?"
He looks right through her, and gives me a hard look before answering. "Could've been better," he says gruffly.
"Specific areas you're focusing on improving?" she asks, nauseatingly sweet. Something about the way she's looking at him like her next meal is aggravating the fuck out of me.
Damnit Olivia, this is exactly what you don't need to do.
"All of it," he replies tersely.
She scribbles down his words and thanks him before stepping back. I manage to look up and see them all standing side by side like a firing squad. The hurt and confusion in their eyes is almost too much to bear, but I force myself to remain detached.
As I pack up my things and head out of the arena, I overhear a group of reporters speculating about the team's sudden drop in performance.
"I just dont understand," one reporter asks. "They were solid all season."
"Something's definitely off," another agrees. "Wonder if there's some internal drama we don't know about."
Their words sting because I know they're right—and that I'm partly to blame. I tighten my grip on my notebook and push through the exit doors into the chilly night air.
I need to fix this before it gets any worse—for them and for me.
Chapter 19- Rodeo