Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
MURPHY
There’s nothing quite like the emotional whiplash of going from Sophie Hart’s hand brushing mine to watching her face shutter as though I’ve personally insulted her gran.
Which I didn’t. For the record.
I didn’t even look at Tabloid Girl until she inserted herself into our airspace like a drunken wasp with lip filler. And now? Now I’m lying on my back in the middle of the rink during drills, breathing hard, staring up at the roof as if maybe the answers are written there in the condensation.
“Are you dead?” Ollie leans over me, stick tapping my shinpad. “You look dead.”
“Maybe I’m soul-dead,” I mutter.
Then Jacko, team enforcer, skates by, laughing. “You’re always soul-dead. Get up, you drama queen.”
I groan and roll to my side, hauling myself upright just in time for Coach to bark, “Murphy! You awake yet or should we call a medic?”
“I’m conscious. Just dramatically brooding,” I call back. A few chuckles ripple through the team, but even I can hear the edge in my voice. Not my usual sparkle. Not today.
Not after Sophie looked at me like she regretted everything.
I’ve been off all morning. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop replaying that moment where everything was clicking, her laugh, the heat, her eyes on mine, and then bam. Wrecking ball in lip gloss ruins it all.
And the worst part? Sophie didn’t even say anything. She didn’t need to. The wall she put up said it for her.
“Oi.” Dylan skates up beside me as we head to the bench for water. “You want to tell me why you’re playing like a hungover pigeon today?”
“No,” I reply simply, gulping water.
“Does this have anything to do with your little sparkly moment at the gala?” he asks, voice low.
“Don’t say sparkly. I’ll hit you.”
“Please do. At least then you’ll be using your arms for something useful today.”
I give him a look, but it doesn’t have its usual bite. “It was going well. For once. And then it wasn’t.”
Dylan doesn’t need the details. He saw Sophie retreat like I’d slapped her with a wet fish. He saw the smile fall off my face. He saw everything.
“You going to talk to her?” he asks.
I hesitate. “Dunno. She looked at me as if I was everything she hates about men in one tight suit.”
“Well. You are everything she hates about men.”
“Thanks, mate. Real ego boost.”
“I meant it with love.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Just don’t let her spiral alone. She’s good at it. I’d know.”
I don’t answer. Because I already know Sophie’s spiralling. She does it with precision. The problem is, I don’t know if she wants me pulling her out of it.
We’re back on the ice for shooting drills and I absolutely blast my first shot off the post so hard it echoes like a gunshot. Mike, the goalie, actually flinches.
“Easy, Van Gogh,” he grumbles. “You trying to decapitate me or paint the boards in my blood?”
“Sorry,” I say. “Pent-up feelings.”
“Ah. A Sophie Situation?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes. You’re skating like someone put nails in your jockstrap.”
I huff out a laugh despite myself. “She looked so…” I break off, shake my head. “Never mind.”
But I can’t not mind. She looked like everything.
In that dress, with her hair all loose and flowing down the velvet skin on her back, the neckline daring and the way she laughed. God, the way she laughed when I whispered that we were about to present “the least prestigious award known to mankind”, it was perfect. For about three minutes.
Then Little Miss Tabloid Girl waltzed up, latched onto my arm like a barnacle, and acted as if we were on a date.
Sophie stepped back like the ground wasn’t safe anymore.
And I let her.
I didn’t go after Sophie. I hate that part.
I skate the next drill like a man possessed and put two more pucks straight into the net with enough velocity to make Coach raise an eyebrow.
“Better,” he mutters.
Murph the Mascot is on a break today. Murphy the Mopey Bastard is in.
After practice, I shower quickly, tug on my hoodie, and head out, hoping no one stops me. Of course someone does.
“Murphy!” Ollie barrels down the hallway, grinning, a towel draped over one shoulder. “You coming to Mia’s later? She’s making nachos and Dylan promised to be emotionally available.”
“I think I’m out tonight, mate.”
Ollie frowns. “You never miss nachos.”
“I’m in mourning.”
“Oh. For Sophie?”
I glare.
He holds up his hands. “Okay! I’ll stop. But maybe go talk to her? You looked as though you were about to propose mid-gala and then she disappeared faster than a goalie at a pub quiz.”
“She saw me with someone else and assumed the worst,” I mutter. “And I didn’t fix it.”
“Well, you’re not dating anyone else, right?”
“No!”
“Then tell her that. Or better yet, show her. Don’t be an idiot, Murph.”
“Harder than it looks,” I grumble. He punches my arm, grins, and jogs off. I should text her. I pull out my phone. Stare at it and then lock it again.
Coward.
Later that night, I’m alone on my couch with a half-eaten takeaway and a repeat of Bake Off that Sophie once mocked me for rewatching. I don’t even like this episode. The meringue collapsed and the whole tent reeked of regret.
But I can’t sleep.
I can’t stop thinking about the look in her eyes when she told me at game night, ‘It didn’t feel like a bad idea.’
It didn’t. It doesn’t. Unless I mess it up again. I rub a hand over my face and finally grab my phone and open my messages.
Murphy: You looked beautiful last night. I’m sorry that moment got ruined.
I hover a moment and then I hit send before I can overthink it. Then I throw the phone across the room as if that’ll stop me from obsessively checking for a reply.
Spoiler alert; it doesn’t.