Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOPHIE
Ihave never been more embarrassed and more smug at the same time in my life. The man’s an idiot. He threw me the puck like he was proposing marriage at centre ice. Like he was the hot jock in some ridiculous teen drama and I was the nerd with a makeover and trust issues.
Then he blew me a kiss. In front of the entire arena. Including a group of teenagers holding up signs that said “MARRY ME MURPHY,” who now hate me with the fire of a thousand suns. I’m going to need witness protection.
But as I leave the rink I can’t stop smiling. Which is annoying. Because this is fake. And if it isn’t? Well. That’s a whole other kind of problem.
By the time I knock on Mia and Dylan’s door that evening, the air between Murphy and me is back to normal. Chaotic, flirty and mildly offensive.
“Right, be cool,” Murphy says, nudging me as we wait. “Try not to embarrass yourself in front of the proper couple.”
I snort. “Says the man who made a scene like a promposal on ice.”
“I gave you a puck.”
“You kissed it. Like it was Titanic and you were dying in the ocean.”
He grins. “You caught it though.”
“I played netball in school.”
“Did you now? Explains the aggression.”
Before I can fire back, the door swings open and Mia appears, barefoot, hair in a messy knot, wearing a hoodie I’m 90% sure is Dylan’s and a look that says I already regret inviting you.
“Sophie,” she says, hugging me briefly. Then to Murphy, dry as sandpaper, “You can come in, I guess.”
“Always a pleasure, Clarke,” Murphy says, breezing past her as if he owns the place. “Still dating the broodiest man in the league?”
“I’m right here,” Dylan calls from the kitchen.
Murphy claps his hands. “Oh good! I was worried you’d be smiling and ruin your whole brand.”
We end up in their living room, the four of us squished around a coffee table with a stack of battered playing cards and a takeaway that smells like heaven.
Mia’s curled up next to Dylan on the couch. Murphy and I are on the floor, sitting cross-legged, fighting over who gets to hold the chips. Currently, I’m winning.
“Right,” Murphy says, dealing out cards with the flair of someone who definitely cheated at GCSE Maths. “We playing honest poker or emotionally manipulative strip poker?”
Dylan stares at him. “Absolutely not.”
“Spoilsport.”
Mia raises an eyebrow at me. “You okay with this chaos?”
“Honestly?” I say, grinning. “It’s comforting. Like a migraine I chose.”
Murphy points at me. “See? That’s love.”
“It’s not,” I deadpan.
“Fake love,” Mia mutters under her breath, and I catch Dylan side-eyeing her as if to say please don’t start something, I’m tired.
Murphy throws an arm dramatically across my shoulders. “Fake or not, babe, I’d toss a puck at you in every arena.”
I look him dead in the eye. “If you ever do it again, I’ll set your hair gel on fire.”
“Fair.”
Mia groans. “Can you two stop flirting long enough to play a round?”
“Define flirting,” Murphy says.
“Define stop,” I add.
Dylan sighs. Loudly. “God, is this what people think we’re like?”
“You should be so lucky,” Murphy says.
Half an hour later, we’ve devoured the food, Mia’s threatening to throw the deck of cards at Murphy’s head, and Dylan has retreated into a kind of calm, silent suffering I associate with long-term trauma and group projects.
It’s brilliant.
“You’re stacking the deck!” Mia accuses Murphy, leaning over the table to snatch the cards.
He grins. “I would never.”
“You always win!”
“That’s just raw, unfiltered talent.”
I lean into her. “He’s also been slipping chips into his hoodie pocket when no one’s looking.”
“Traitor!” Murphy gasps.
“You snuck the naan bread into your shoe.”
“It was tactical. You never suspect the naan.”
Dylan sets down his drink. “I suspect everything now.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Murphy tells him.
“It is.”
Mia shakes her head. “You two are worse than Ollie and Jacko after too much Lucozade.”
Murphy turns to me. “Let’s form a breakaway team. Leave these losers to stew in their monogamous misery.”
“Only if I get the naan back.”
“You sold me out!”
“Trust no one,” I say, and flick a chip at his forehead.
Eventually, we settle into something resembling calm.
Mia’s curled up against Dylan again. He has his arm around her, eyes half-lidded like he’s winding down, even if he hasn’t said a word in ten minutes. They’re quiet but solid. Like the kind of relationship that doesn’t need to fill the space.
Murphy and I are still on the floor. His knee bumps mine every so often. It’s not accidental, and I don’t move.
“You guys ever think about making it real?” Dylan asks suddenly. The question lands like a brick in a fish tank. Mia stares at him. Murphy stiffens. I blink.
Then I laugh. “Wow. Tell us how you really feel.”
Murphy says nothing. His hand finds the edge of the takeaway box, fiddling with a sauce packet.
Dylan shrugs. “You’re obviously into each other.”
“We’re not,” I say.
Murphy, still quiet. “Not like that.”
Mia gives us a look. “You flirt constantly. You act married in public. I mean, I know your agent want’s a more grounded version of you, Murph, but still…”
“And we haven’t slept together in months,” I point out.
That shuts everyone up. Murphy side-eyes me. “Way to overshare, love.”
“Just clarifying for the room.”
Dylan looks vaguely like he wants to dissolve into the sofa.
Murphy leans closer. “You could’ve said ‘we’re just mates’ like a normal person.”
“That’s boring.”
Mia groans. “I feel like I need a PowerPoint presentation to follow this dynamic.”
“It’s simple,” Murphy says. “We’re friends. Sometimes spicy friends. But mostly just friends.”
“With amazing chemistry,” I add.
“And dazzling wit.”
“And excellent fake dating faces.”
He grins. “You do have a good smoulder.”
“I practice in the mirror.”
Mia tosses a cushion at us. “Please leave.”
Dylan raises his drink. “Seconded.”
We don’t leave, well not right away.
It’s late when we finally peel ourselves off the floor and start making noises about going. Mia packs up leftovers for us in little Tupperware boxes as though we’re her disappointing children. Dylan looks like he needs sleep and possibly therapy.
Murphy’s still in high spirits, spinning his keys around his fingers, telling Mia she should open a card school and charge for entry.
“You’re exhausting,” she tells him.
“I’m delightful.”
I nudge him. “You’re both.”
He holds the door open for me. “After you, fake girlfriend.”
I turn back to the room before stepping out. “Thanks for the chaos,” I say.
Mia smiles faintly. “Thanks for making me feel normal.”
“Sorry we were weird in your house,” Murphy adds.
Dylan, already halfway to closing the door adds, “Don’t come back.”
Outside, the night’s cold. It feels sharp around the edges. Murphy offers me his hoodie and I take it without arguing. We don’t say anything as we walk to our cars. There’s music humming from someone’s flat nearby, offering a bassline through the dark. Our shoes scuff the pavement.
“You okay?” I ask finally.
He glances at me. “Yeah.”
“That didn’t feel like a joke to you?”
He exhales slowly. “Parts of it did.”
“And the rest?” He doesn’t answer. Just unlocks my car door for me, then leans against the frame as if he’s trying to decide what we are again.
Fake. Fun. Comfortable. Dangerous.
“Goodnight, Sophie.”
I smile. “Goodnight, Murphy.”
He doesn’t kiss me and I don’t ask him to. But he walks back to his car like he’s thinking about it.
And that’s somehow worse.