Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
MURPHY
There’s a certain power in walking into an arena and knowing exactly who’s here to see you.
I’m not talking about the crowd or the sponsors. Not even the couple of girls by the boards who waved and flashed homemade signs with my name in glitter last week, although, shout out to the real ones.
No. Tonight, it’s Sophie.
And she’s sitting front row, centre ice, right next to the bench.
Wearing this fitted black coat like she’s about to steal someone’s boyfriend and give a TED Talk about it.
She’s not smiling. Well, not exactly, but her lips curve at the corner when she sees me looking, and that’s worse. That’s deliberate. That’s dangerous.
“Oi.” Ollie smacks me on the shin with his stick. “You planning on playing tonight or just eye-shagging your missus for sixty minutes?”
I jab his shoulder with my elbow. “She’s not my… shut up.”
Ollie grins. “Didn’t say a word.”
“Say one more and I’m putting Deep Heat in your jockstrap.”
“Romantic,” Jacko mutters, stretching beside me.
“I’m just saying,” Ollie continues, undeterred, “if she’s pretend, you’re selling it a bit too hard, mate.”
“I’m committed to the role,” I say flatly.
“Committed to something,” Jacko throws in.
“Can we all shut up and warm up like professionals?” Dylan growls as he skates past.
Ollie cups a hand to his mouth. “Tell your friend to stop distracting Murphy!”
Sophie hears that one but she doesn’t react. Just tilts her head slightly and raises a brow like she’s watching something mildly entertaining. Like me.
God help me, I want to impress her.
The game starts fast.
We’re playing one of the top teams in the league, and the pace is brutal from puck drop.
Mia’s at her usual post by the bench, clipboard in hand, doing that intense physio-focus thing where she zones out the crowd completely.
Dylan’s locked in, barking instructions. The rookies are trying to keep up.
And I’m flying.
Every stride hits right. Every pass clicks. My hands are sharp, my legs loose, and the adrenaline hits like fire under my skin. By the end of the first period, we’re up by one and I’ve already racked up an assist. But I want a goal.
No, scratch that. I want a goal I can dedicate.
Second period. We’re on the power play. I’m posted up at the left circle, stick primed. The puck slides across from Dylan. It’s a one-time shot. I don’t even think.
Back of the net.
The crowd erupts.
And I don’t hesitate.
I coast past the bench, stick down to scoop up the puck, then skate straight over to where Sophie’s sitting, ignoring the bench, ignoring Coach yelling something about line changes, ignoring the guys losing their minds behind me.
I lock eyes with her through the plexiglass. She gives me this look. Half daring, half annoyed. Like I’m being so extra. Good. I grin, kiss the puck, then toss it high over the glass. She snatches it like a pro. Doesn’t even flinch.
And I blow her a kiss. Deadpan. Slow. Two fingers, off the lips, like a bloody film star. There’s a beat where time goes slow, then Ollie, from behind me, yells, “SIMP!”
The whole bench loses it.
Coach is roaring something I pretend not to hear. The ref’s blowing his whistle to reset the face-off. I skate backwards like it’s nothing, like I didn’t just publicly soft-launch a fake relationship in the middle of a live game.
But I see her.
Clutching that puck, shaking her head like she can’t believe me, smiling in that way she does when she doesn’t want me to know she’s smiling. And suddenly, I don’t care if it was over the top.
Because I got that smile.
Third period, and it’s a tied game.
Tensions are high. Dylan gets checked hard into the boards and Mia’s instantly on her feet, but he waves her off. Ollie’s scrapping with their winger as though he’s got something to prove. Even Jacko’s muttering threats under his breath, which is rare unless someone insults Bake Off.
But I’m calm. I’m riding the high of her being here.
I do stupid things when Sophie’s around.
Show-off things. Stupid brave things. Like try to toe-drag past two defenders and nearly get flattened.
Or drop to my knees to block a shot when I’ve never blocked a shot in my life and probably won’t again.
We win. Barely. The final score is 4–3. I’ve got a goal, an assist, and a red mark on my ribs the size of a small country.
As I come off the ice, sweat dripping, gear clinging, Sophie’s still there. Still front row. Still holding that puck like she hasn’t decided whether to treasure it or throw it at my head. I give her a wink and she rolls her eyes but doesn’t look away.
Back in the locker room, the guys are loud and soaked in sweat and satisfaction. The music’s turned up loud. Someone’s cracked open the recovery drinks, and Ollie’s already replaying his almost-goal as if it was the game-winner.
Murphy: 1
Everyone else: Bitter.
“Alright, Romeo,” Dylan says, shoving past me toward his locker. “You’re lucky you scored, or Coach would’ve benched you for that little love letter stunt.”
“It wasn’t a stunt,” I say casually. “It was a moment.”
Ollie howls. “A moment he’s going to make into a TikTok montage, guaranteed.”
“Bet he already picked a song,” Jacko adds. “Something emotional. Maybe Ed Sheeran.”
“Shut your faces,” I say, grinning. Truth is, I don’t even know why I did it. It just felt right. Like for once, I didn’t want to hide behind the fake part.
I wanted her to see. To know. Even if it scares the hell out of me.
When I leave the locker room later, she’s outside in the hallway, waiting. Arms crossed. Puck still in her hand. “You,” she says.
Me, leaning casually against the wall, towel slung around my neck. “Me.”
“You threw me a puck.”
“I did.”
“And blew me a kiss. In front of thousands of people.”
“Also true.”
“Your coach nearly had a stroke.”
“Worth it.”
She narrows her eyes. “You trying to get us trending again?”
I shrug. “Maybe I just wanted to see you smile.”
She falters. Just for a second. Then rolls her eyes and tosses the puck back at me. I catch it. “Don’t get used to the soft treatment, Romeo.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Juliet.”
We stare at each other. It’s different now. Heavier somehow. Like there’s something thick between us we keep pretending isn’t there.
Fake relationship.
Fake.
But that look on her face when I scored? That wasn’t fake. And this ache in my chest when she walks away?
Not fake either.