22. Olivia
22
OLIVIA
S eemingly glued to my desk, I read through my article one last time. The words blur together, and I force myself to focus. The more I read it, the more it feels like it's some kind of sick twisted goodbye letter to the guys. As much as it kills me, I need to distance myself from the Wolves. I owe Liam, Noah and Ethan that much.
As I continue to proofread, memories flood back. Liam's smile as he explained defensive strategies in the tape room, his hand brushing mine. Noah giving me his jacket after the rainstorm, that currently sits draped across my bedpost. Ethan's guarded expression softening as he shared his struggles with the trade.
Each passage about them tugs at my heart.
"Leadership is not just about skill," I'd written about Liam. "It's about heart, and Liam Makar has that in spades." I can still see the determination in his eyes during that game-winning block.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I recall Noah's lightning-fast breakaways. "Noah Kane is the embodiment of resilience," I'd typed, remembering how he'd confided in me about always feeling second best to Liam.
And then there's Ethan. "Ethan Reynolds brings a raw intensity to the Wolves," I'd written, thinking of our late-night conversation where he'd let his guard down for just a moment.
My phone buzzes, breaking my reverie. A text from Sophie: "Any progress?"
I type back quickly, "Almost done."
I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. This isn't just an article anymore; it's a piece of me. An autobiography of sorts. Each sentence feels like an admission of how deeply I've let these men affect me.
My finger hovers over the "Send" button, but I hesitate. The article is good— hell it's great— possibly the best thing I've ever written—but it's also deeply personal. If people think the Wolves are tanking right now, just wait until the team catches wind of this bombshell. I close my eyes, imagining the potential fallout, and my stomach churns with anxiety.
I know in my heart what I need to do. But fuck if it doesn't hurt. Leave it to me to finally have something to be proud of, and then fuck it up.
I know the team is suffering, but aren't I suffering too? This could be my big break. What I've been working towards since I started journalism. What I promised my parents I would accomplish and make them proud. Not only would my career be affected, but what about my poor fucking heart? That thing has been put through the ringer since the Matt escapade and now this?
"Ugh who the fuck am I kidding." I say to myself as I lay my head down on the table. Why does it have to be so hard to choose between your career and your heart?
The thought hits me like a freight train. I'm not the only one having to choose between a career and their own heart. But unlike my scenario, there's three careers at stake, and three hearts to break.
"Quit putting it off Olivia." I mutter to myself. I'm startled by a small paw scratching at my pajamas.
"Hey buddy," I say, picking Oscar up and putting him in my lap. I scratch behind his ears, feeling the emotions well behind my eyes.
"When this all falls apart, I'll still have you right?" He nuzzles in deeper on my lap and lets out a small whine.
"I'll take that as a yes then."
An hour passes of me sitting at the table, listening to Taylor Swift, and crying into my dogs fur. I still haven't made a decision. I grab my phone and dial Hartgrove's number. He answers on the second ring.
"Hartgrove here."
"Hi, it's Olivia. Can I meet with you? It's urgent."
"Sure, come by my office in twenty."
I hang up and throw on some jeans and a hoodie, trying to make myself presentable. The drive to the office is a blur of nervous energy and self-doubt. By the time I arrive, my stomach is in knots.
Hartgrove’s office is imposing as ever, filled with shelves of awards and framed newspaper front pages. He looks up from his desk as I walk in, his expression unreadable.
"Olivia, sit down. What's going on?"
I take a deep breath and dive in. "I need to talk to you about the Wolves article."
His brow furrows. "Problems with the piece?"
"Not exactly." I twist my hands in my lap. "It's... more personal."
He leans back, eyes narrowing slightly. "Go on."
"I've developed feelings for three of the players—Liam, Noah, and Ethan." The words tumble out before I can stop them.
Hartgrove's eyebrows shoot up. "Three? That's ambitious."
"I'm serious," I say, feeling my cheeks heat up. "I don't know what to do. My involvement with them... it's affecting my objectivity."
He steeples his fingers, considering me carefully. "How involved are we talking here?"
I turn my head, hoping my lack of an answer leads him to draw the conclusion that he needs.
He whistles lowly. "Olivia, this is a hell of a mess."
"I know," I say, my voice breaking slightly. "That's why I'm here. I don't want to compromise my integrity or the team's performance."
Hartgrove's face softens just a fraction. "Olivia, maybe it's time to hand the final edit and piece over to Jenna. She can take over the playoff footage.
The suggestion feels like a punch to the gut. I sit up straighter, shaking my head. "But this story... it’s mine."
"I get that," he says, steepling his fingers. "But if your personal involvement is affecting your objectivity?—"
"It's not just about objectivity," I cut in, voice rising. "This story is everything I've worked for. Handing it off feels like giving up."
Hartgrove sighs, leaning forward on his desk. "You're not giving up. You're ensuring the piece gets the professional distance it needs."
I grip the edge of my chair, frustration bubbling up. "Professional distance? You think Jenna will understand the nuances of Liam's leadership? Or Noah's resilience? Or Ethan's struggles with integrating into a new team?"
"Jenna's a good reporter," Marcus says evenly.
"But she's not me." My voice cracks on the last word.
Marcus looks at me with a mix of sympathy and exasperation. "What do you want me to tell you then? Keep entangling yourself in this mess until you can't see straight?"
I take a deep breath, trying to steady my emotions. "I have to finish this. I need to tell their stories."
"And what about your own story?" Hartgrove asks quietly.
"What about it?"
He leans back again, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "You're risking everything for three guys who might not even care about you once this is all over."
I flinch at his words but hold my ground. "Maybe. But I'm not ready to let go of them—or this story."
Marcus watches me for a moment before nodding slowly. "Alright, Olivia. Finish it. But be careful. But you are to report to me daily, and if anything seems off to me, I'm handing the story to Jenna. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yessir," I nod, feeling a strange mix of relief and determination settle over me.
"Thank you," I say softly.
"Just promise me you'll keep some perspective," He warns.
"I will," I promise, standing up to leave.
As I walk out of his office, I feel a surge of clarity. This story isn't just about hockey or playoffs—it's about Liam, Noah, and Ethan as individuals with dreams, fears, and struggles that deserve to be told.
And maybe... just maybe... it's about my own journey too.
I subconsciously decide to attend the game tonight. Not as a reporter, not as a distraction, just as a fan. The drive to the arena is a blur. My heart pounds as I pull into the parking lot and grab my press pass.
As I step into the Howl Center, the familiar buzz of pre-game excitement fills the air. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's ahead. I make my way to the stands and position myself behind a large burly man who reeks of B.O and beer.
"Game time boys," I mutter to myself as I pull the bill of my hat down. "Let's kick some ass."