Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
SOPHIE
Murphy opens the door wearing socks, joggers, and an England kit top that looks like it’s done time in about twelve washing machine cycles too many. There’s a pizza box under one arm and a controller in the other.
“Fashionably late,” he says, stepping back to let me in. “I thought you’d bailed.”
“I was considering it,” I reply, shrugging off my coat and toeing off my boots. “But then I remembered how fragile your ego is and figured I should let you win a round of FIFA before it crumbles entirely.”
He gives me that smirk, lazy, crooked, all mischief and no remorse. “That’s bold talk for someone who rage quit last time.”
“That was lag and you know it,” I shoot back. “Your Wi-Fi is held together with duct tape and desperation.”
“Wi-Fi’s solid,” he says, handing me a beer from the kitchen counter. “It’s your pride that’s patchy.”
We settle into our usual positions on the sofa, him manspreading like it’s a competitive sport, me curling into the corner cushion with my legs tucked up, already stealing one of the throw cushions.
The pizza box rests open between us, steam rising off the double pepperoni.
Classic game night. No pressure. No labels. No mention of that night.
But tonight, I didn’t come just for the game or the pizza or to watch Murphy yell at virtual referees like they can hear him. I came because Mia opened her big helpful mouth and now there’s a question itching the back of my brain.
The match starts and he scores within the first two minutes.
“Oi!” I yell, pelting him with a piece of crust. “That doesn’t count. I wasn’t ready.”
“Should’ve thought of that before picking Spurs,” he says smugly, sipping his beer.
“I picked them to handicap myself, obviously. So you don’t cry.”
He doesn’t answer, just grins and keeps hammering the buttons like his life depends on it. His hair’s still damp from training, and there’s a smudge of tape mark on his shin I can see from here. Typical Murphy; half put-together, full of chaos, always annoyingly fit even in a crumpled kit.
“You hear from your agent?” I ask casually during a lull between games.
He exhales sharply and slumps back into the cushions.
“You know I did, Mia spilled. She wants me to start projecting a more ‘wholesome image’.” He does air quotes so aggressively I’m surprised he doesn’t sprain a finger.
“Apparently, I’m too much of a ‘party boy liability’ to appeal to certain brands. Can you believe that?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t your last Instagram story include shots with you shirtless, pouring tequila from a ski boot?”
“That was a team tradition,” he protests. “And I had a towel on. That’s practically formal wear in my world.”
I laugh. “You know I’m not judging, right? You’re just, let’s say, not exactly giving family-man energy.”
He fake gasps. “Are you saying I’m not boyfriend material?”
I don’t flinch. “Not for me, no.” There’s a flicker in his expression, something unreadable, but it’s gone before I can name it. We play another round. I lose again. On purpose, this time, so I can poke the bear.
“You’re getting soft,” I tease. “Should I be worried? You’re actually focused. Almost serious.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he mutters, though he looks pleased with himself.
I stretch, letting my head fall back against the couch. “Mia had an idea.”
That gets his attention. “About what?”
“Your sponsorship crisis.”
He groans. “If it involves kale smoothies or yoga, I’m out.”
“It doesn’t. It involves me.”
His brows lift. “I’m listening.”
I turn my head toward him, noting the way his arm is slung across the back of the sofa. Not touching me, but close enough to feel like a dare.
“She said…” I pause, mostly to enjoy the look of suspicion crawling across his face. “That maybe we could help your image problem by, you know… pretending to be a couple.”
There’s a full beat of silence. Then, “Wait, what?”
I grin. “You heard me.”
His face is a mix of intrigue and pure panic. “You and me. Pretending to date.”
“Fake dating,” I correct. “Just for optics. You parade me around in public, make a few social media posts about how grounded and committed you are, and suddenly you’re sponsor gold.”
He stares at me. “That’s the most unhinged PR plan I’ve ever heard.”
I shrug. “Worked in that Christmas movie Mia made me watch. The one with the fake fiancée and the snowstorm.”
“This isn’t Netflix, Soph.”
“No, but your agent’s not exactly coming up with any better ideas.”
He rubs a hand over his face, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like bloody Clarke. Then he looks at me properly, and something shifts behind his eyes. “Why would you agree to that?”
The question catches me off guard. I could lie. Could say it’s just for fun. Just to help Mia. Just to keep things interesting. But the truth is messier. Harder to say. So instead, I give him the half-truth. “Because I figured you’d say no.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well, surprise.”
We lapse into silence again. Not awkward exactly. Just careful. Finally, he speaks. “So, what would fake dating even look like? You want me to take you to Nando’s and post it on the gram?”
I smirk. “Absolutely not. I have standards.”
“Right. So more... what? Holding hands in front of cameras? Paparazzi walks outside the rink?”
“Possibly. Maybe a story or two. A few game nights like this but with more intentional lighting.”
He snorts. “I don’t even know how to look like I’m in a relationship.”
“You’d just have to stop flirting with waitresses for five minutes.”
“That’s my love language.”
“You’re exhausting.”
He leans closer. Not much, just a little. Enough to feel the heat rise between us. “You scared it’d stop being fake?” he asks, his voice low.
I don’t flinch. “You scared it wouldn’t?”
He holds my gaze, and for one second, everything else drops away; the banter, the jokes, the sharp edges we throw at each other like armour.
Then the moment passes.
He leans back, breaking eye contact. “Okay,” he says casually. “I’ll do it.”
I blink. “Wait. Seriously?”
“Sure. Why not? If it gets the agent off my back and gives you a reason to show off your impressive acting chops…”
“You mean lie?”
“Semantics.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”
He grins, it’s wide and boyish. “And yet you keep coming back.”
“Just until I finally beat you at FIFA.”
“That’ll never happen.”
We start another game. The vibe is lighter now, almost stupidly so considering what we’ve just agreed to. But that’s us, isn’t it? Too much tension and not enough sense.
As he picks his team, he says, “So… fake girlfriend, huh?”
“Fake girlfriend.”
He pauses. “That mean I have to stop seeing other people?”
I glance at him sideways. “You seeing other people now?”
He lifts a shoulder. “Not lately.”
“Then it shouldn’t be hard, should it?”
His smirk falters, just a bit. “No. Shouldn’t be.”
The match begins and I score in the first five minutes. “Told you I’d win eventually,” I say, smugly.
He throws his arms up. “It’s a fluke!”
“Better get used to losing, babe. It’s part of the relationship experience.”
He laughs, shaking his head, but there’s something softer in it now. I don’t know what the hell we’re doing. But maybe, for once, I’m okay not knowing.
At least until the next game night.