Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
MURPHY
The idea is so stupid it might actually work.
That’s the only thought in my head the morning after Sophie floated it; me and her, playing pretend couple for the sponsors. A PR stunt dressed up like a romcom subplot. Only it’s not a romcom. It’s my fucking career. And Sophie?
Sophie’s the one girl who knows better than to fall for my shit. The one who already did once, technically, and has avoided a repeat ever since.
I’m still thinking about it the next day at training, which is saying something, because I usually don’t think about anything but the puck and whether Jacko brought biscuits for the changing room. Jonno nearly clocks me in the face with a medicine ball during core work.
“You good?” he asks, catching the wobble in my stance.
“Peachy,” I grunt, bracing through a plank and trying not to picture Sophie in that smug little smile she wore when she scored on me last night.
You scared it wouldn’t stay fake?
It was a joke. A throwaway line. But it’s stuck to me like gum on my skate.
Training wraps. I shower fast, chuck on a hoodie, and walk out into the afternoon drizzle with my phone buzzing in my pocket. Group chat blowing up about tonight’s plans, most of the lads are heading to the pub. Diesel sends a thumbs-up. Ollie’s already asking if they’re serving wings.
I text Sophie instead.
Murphy: You still in for the thing? Or have you come to your senses yet?
It takes her two minutes to reply.
Sophie: Already picked my outfit. Don’t flake. Also, you owe me a drink if I have to endure your fake boyfriend hands all over me.
I stare at the screen, grinning like an idiot. This is going to be chaos. Absolute chaos.
I can’t wait.
The pub’s buzzing when I walk in. The usual Friday crowd, half the team, a few local fans, and the jukebox stuck in early-2000s indie rock mode. Mia’s over by the bar talking to Jacko, who’s gesturing wildly with a pint in one hand and a bowl of chips in the other.
I spot Sophie almost instantly.
She’s leaning against a high table, leather jacket over a black top, and jeans that look painted on. Her hair’s tied back in that messy thing she does when she’s trying not to look like she tried. It’s working.
I walk up and slide in beside her, close but not touching.
She raises a brow. “This close enough for your wholesome image?”
“I’d say it’s borderline chaste,” I murmur. “Might need to up the affection. Really sell the fantasy.”
She rolls her eyes. “Touch me without warning and I’ll elbow you in the ribs.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I order drinks and we settle into our fake-but-not-fake date. It’s weird how easy it is. We already flirt without trying and banter as though it’s built into our lungs. The only difference is now it’s on purpose.
We mingle and laugh. She throws an olive at my face when I make a dumb joke. I toss a chip back and it lands in her drink. Murphy-Sophie standard protocol.
Then someone pulls out a phone.
“Oi! Couple photo!” Ollie shouts, holding up his camera.
Sophie freezes for half a second. I catch it but no one else does. Then she recovers, smooth as silk, and leans into me like we’ve done this a hundred times. Her hand lands on my chest. My arm slides round her waist automatically.
Flash.
Snap.
Ollie whistles. “Look at that. Bloody adorable.”
I look down at her. She looks up at me. It’s just pretend. It’s just pretend. So why the hell does my heart feel like it’s trying to beat its way out of my throat?
Later, we duck outside for air. The cold hits hard, sharp enough to sober anyone up. Sophie draws on her vape, even though she swears she’s quitting.
“You alright?” I ask, leaning beside her against the wall.
“Peachy,” she says, echoing my tone from earlier.
I chuckle. “You were good in there. Very convincing. Might have to nominate you for a BAFTA.”
“I’ve been pretending not to hate you for months,” she says. “The role came naturally.”
“Oof,” I say, wincing. “Right in the self-esteem.”
“Please. Your ego’s fireproof.”
We lapse into silence. It’s not awkward. It never is with her. But it’s… aware. As though we’re both hyperconscious of the space between us. Of how easy it would be to close it. I look over at her. “You meant it though, right? That this is just for show?”
She takes a drag, eyes flicking sideways. “What, you’re worried I’ll catch feelings?”
“No,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
She exhales smoke slowly. “Same page. Same sentence. Same full stop.”
“Right.” I try to laugh it off. “Good. Solid. Unambiguous.”
She turns to face me fully. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You cool with pretending to be into me?”
I blink. “Sophie, I’ve been into you. That’s the problem.”
She freezes. I could lie. I could joke. Diffuse the moment like I always do. But something about the way she’s looking at me, half guarded, half vulnerable, makes me hold the line. “You’re easy to be into,” I say, my voice lower now. “Too easy, sometimes.”
She drops her gaze, “We said it was one night,” she says after a pause.
“I know.”
“And that we weren’t doing it again.”
“Still know.”
“So why say shit like that?”
I shrug, honest now in a way that makes my throat tight. “Because pretending not to care is getting harder.”
She looks at me then, properly. And for one long moment, we don’t say anything. Just stand there in the cold, with months of unsaid things hovering between us.
Then the door bangs open and Ollie yells something about shots, and the moment shatters like ice. Sophie steps back. “Let’s go in before someone thinks we’ve run off to elope.”
“God forbid,” I say, trying to smile. She doesn’t look back as she walks in. And for the first time in ages, I don’t follow right away.
We ride home in near silence. She catches a lift with me because her flat is on the way and I offered before I could overthink it. She fiddles with the radio, skipping songs like none of them quite match the mood. Eventually she lands on something acoustic and mournful. Of course.
“Thanks for tonight,” she says finally, as we pull up outside her building.
“Yeah,” I say, my hand gripping the wheel too tight. “You were brilliant.”
She pauses with her hand on the door. “We doing this again?”
“You mean the fake dating thing or the part where I admit I fancy you and then we pretend I didn’t?”
That earns me a tired laugh. “The fake dating.”
“Sure. If you’re game.”
“I’m game,” she says. Then adds, quieter, “Just don’t go getting all real feelings on me, yeah?”
I smile, even though it feels as if I’m papering over a crack. “I’ll do my best.”
She nods and opens the car door. For a split second, I think she’s going to lean in and kiss me. Or say something. But she just steps out into the night. “Goodnight, Murph.”
I watch her go. “Night, Soph.”
And I sit there in the quiet for a long time before driving away.