Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MURPHY
Ican’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me last night. Not when I tossed the puck, though that was hilarious, but later, outside her car. When the noise had died down and we were standing there in the quiet, trading sarcasm like usual, except something in the air felt different. Charged.
And then I didn’t kiss her.
Which was probably for the best. Right?
Except now I’m pacing outside a sleek office building in the city, trying to remember if I brushed my hair this morning.
I’m wearing the good version of casual; dark jeans, button-up shirt, boots that don’t have pub stains on them.
My agent, Layla, asked me to pop in for a meeting.
Casual, she said. Just a quick catch-up.
I hate casual meetings. They always feel like ambushes.
Inside, the receptionist smiles like I’m famous, which is flattering considering the only people who usually recognise me are ten-year-olds in replica jerseys and the occasional drunk dad at Tesco.
“Murphy! Great to see you,” Layla beams as she opens the meeting room door. “Come in, come in. We’ve got coffee. And something better.”
“Better than coffee? Bold.”
She laughs and gestures for me to sit. I flop into the chair as if I belong there, though I immediately regret it when I sink too low and have to do that awkward shuffle to sit upright again.
She slides her tablet across the table. “Take a look.”
On the screen are half a dozen blurry-but-totally-clear-enough photos of me and Sophie in the bar after last week’s game. One is of me whispering something into her ear. Another of her laughing with her hand on my chest. A third shows me grinning down at her like a proper idiot.
“Wow,” I say.
Layla’s practically vibrating. “Murph, the internet loves you. Well. They love her. And they love that you’re with her.”
“We’re not together,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
She waves that off. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that people are eating it up. You’re trending softer. Less party boy, more boyfriend. Sponsors are into it.”
I lean back. “Are you saying I look like a boyfriend?”
“I’m saying you’re marketable. You and Sophie, whether real or fake, you’re good for your image. Family-friendly, still edgy, but with a rom-com heart. We’ve already had interest from a couple of new brands.”
She flicks through mock-ups on her tablet; me in branded joggers, me drinking protein smoothies with a wink, me and Sophie walking a dog that doesn’t exist.
“What if she’s not on board with it?” I ask.
Layla pauses. “Then we don’t push. But if she is, there’s a lot of opportunity here. Even one campaign would mean serious money.”
I nod, but my stomach’s tight. It’s not that I mind being seen with Sophie. I like it, actually. Probably too much. But now it feels as though we’re playing with something real, and I’m not sure if I’m in control anymore.
The rest of the meeting blurs by in a wash of numbers, projections, and me saying “yeah” a lot.
When I finally escape, I don’t head home. I drive to Sophie’s. I have no plan. No clever lines. Just this restless hum under my skin and the memory of her shoulder brushing mine on the living room floor.
She opens the door in leggings and my hoodie, her blonde curly hair piled on top of her head, and one sock rolled halfway down. She’s holding a mug of tea and looking at me as if I’ve just asked her to recite the periodic table.
“Hi,” I say.
“Did we have plans or did I black out?”
“No. I… uh I was nearby. Thought I’d say hi.”
She stares. “You were ‘nearby’ in the middle of nowhere, ten miles from the rink, with no takeaway bag in sight?”
I shrug. “You want takeaway? I can get takeaway.”
Her mouth twitches. “You’re weird.”
“You like it.”
She hesitates, then stands back. “Get in before the neighbours start judging me.”
I step inside and everything smells of jasmine and fabric softener. Her place is tidy but lived-in, cluttered in that charming way that says she doesn’t believe in minimalism.
We end up on the sofa. She reclaims her tea and I look at her as though I’m trying to figure out how to start this. “You’ve been trending,” I say finally.
She narrows her eyes. “That sounds like a threat.” I pull up the photos on my phone and pass it over.
She scrolls. Then blinks. “Is that... are those fan sites?”
“Apparently we’ve got chemistry.”
“Chemistry or delusion?”
“Bit of both.”
She snorts and keeps scrolling. “So, what now? We sell matching mugs?”
“Layla wants us to do a campaign.”
She looks up sharply. “Us?”
“Only if you want to. We can say no. I can say no.”
There’s a long pause. Her face softens. “Murph. Are you okay with all this? With what people think?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Sometimes it feels like a laugh. Sometimes it feels like something I really want. And sometimes it feels as though I’m standing on a cliff trying to decide if it’s a good idea to jump.”
She sets the mug down and tucks her legs beneath her. “You don’t have to jump for anyone.”
“Not even for you?”
Her eyes meet mine. She’s quieter now. “Especially not for me.”
I don’t mean to lean closer; I don’t even think about it. I just do it. She doesn’t move away.
The kiss, when it happens, is slow and sure. No big declarations. No dramatic background music. Just her hand on my cheek and my heart doing backflips.
When we pull apart, she rests her forehead against mine.
“That was a bad idea,” she whispers.
“Probably.”
“Still gonna do it again.” She chuckles.
I grin. “Good.”
Outside, the sky’s darkening. Inside, everything’s still a bit messy, a bit complicated. But her hand’s in mine now, and I think maybe I’ve already jumped.