Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MURPHY
The smell of burnt toast and the sound of swearing wake me up.
I blink against the morning light filtering through Sophie’s bedroom window.
For a second, I think I’ve dreamt the whole thing; her mouth, her laugh, the way she fell asleep tucked against me like she hadn’t just sworn blind this thing between us was fake.
Then I hear her, “Son of a… how is this thing even legal to sell?”
Definitely not a dream.
I stretch, feeling smug and deliciously sore in all the right places. Her bed’s a mess, the sheets are tangled, one of her pillows is on the floor, and my shirt is hanging off her mirror like a flag of victory.
Padding out of her bedroom in just my boxers, I follow the scent of something charred and possibly carcinogenic into the kitchen.
She’s standing at the counter in a smart shirt dress, bare-legged, hair in a messy bun, wielding a butter knife like a weapon against a stubborn block of Lurpak. The toast is smoking.
“Morning, domestic goddess,” I say, leaning against the doorway.
She glances over her shoulder. “Don’t start.”
“Too late. That toaster’s clearly plotting your downfall.”
“It’s your fault. You’re the reason I overslept and forgot to fix the settings.”
“Pretty sure you were the one who jumped me.”
“I was drunk.”
“You were tipsy. There’s a difference. Besides, you made very sober decisions once the kissing started.”
Her eyes narrow. “Murphy.”
“Yes, my love?”
She tosses the knife into the sink and grabs her bag. “Don’t call me that.”
I follow her into the hallway as she pulls on ankle boots and shrugs into a coat.
“What happened to breakfast?”
“I’m grabbing something on the way to work.”
“You sure? We could order something. Eat it in bed. Or on the table. Or against the door…”
“Murph.”
I step in front of her, my hand on the door, holding it closed. “Come on, Hart. You really gonna pretend last night was just a blip?”
She fixes me with that look, half exasperation, half panic. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. It was fun. It was hot. And now it’s over.”
“You keep saying that. But you keep kissing me anyway.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Only if we don’t do it again.” Her lips twitch, like she’s trying not to smile. I drop my voice. “You ever gonna admit you like me?”
She tilts her head. “I do like you.”
My heart skips.
“But I also like pizza,” she continues breezily. “Doesn’t mean I want to commit to it.”
“Depends on the toppings.”
“Murphy…”
“Alright, alright.” I raise my hands. “Fake relationship, minimal feelings, no catching real ones. Got it.”
She opens the door, brushing past me. “Try not to fall in love while I’m gone.”
“Too late.” She freezes; her eyes wide. I wink. “With your toaster. Thing’s a beast.”
She rolls her eyes and disappears down the hallway without looking back. But I swear she’s smiling.
By the time I get to the rink, the cold hits me harder than usual. Or maybe it’s the emotional whiplash of Sophie Hart slipping through my fingers like melted ice. Either way, I skate out onto the ice feeling as if I’m two steps behind my own thoughts.
Training’s already underway. Dylan’s running passing drills with that grim focus he wears like body armour. Jacko’s heckling Ollie over his choice of neon-yellow skate laces.
“Oi, Murph,” Jacko calls as I join them, “you look like you’ve just crawled out of a very specific kind of war zone.”
“Not wrong,” I mutter, pulling on gloves. “Sophie’s toaster tried to murder her.”
Ollie perks up. “You stayed at hers?”
“Maybe.”
Jacko grins. “So that ‘fake dating’ thing is heating up, yeah?”
“Define heating up.”
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Define sleep.”
Ollie drops his stick in shock. “No way.”
“Way.”
“I thought she hated you.”
“She does. Passionately.”
Jacko laughs. “That kind of passion tends to end in nakedness.”
“It did,” I confirm. “Repeatedly.”
Jonno blows the whistle before I can elaborate, it’s probably for the best, and we spend the next forty-five minutes getting our legs turned to jelly in drills. Dylan doesn’t say much, but I catch him glancing over at me a couple of times with that broody ‘I know you’re hiding something’ look.
After practice, we hit the locker room, all sweat and sharp banter. I’m towelling off when Mike, the team manager, bursts in like a poorly timed pop quiz.
“Right. Listen up,” he announces. “We’ve got a PR event tomorrow.”
Groans echo off the tile.
Jacko’s first to speak. “Is it puppies again? Because last time Ollie nearly cried.”
“They were very small, okay?” Ollie mutters.
Mike sighs. “No, it’s a visit to the children’s hospital.
Local ward, with long-term patients. One of the lads there is a massive fan, he knows all your stats.
” That shuts us all up. Mike continues. “Photos, autographs, a bit of stick-handling if they’re up to it. Just be decent humans for a few hours.”
“Define decent,” Jacko mumbles.
Mike looks directly at me. “No flirting with the nurses.”
“I don’t flirt.”
“You flirt like it’s your side hustle.” He raises an eyebrow in my direction.
I raise a hand. “In my defence, they flirt back.”
“You’ll be on camera. No innuendo. No profanity. No making bets with the children about their IV drip speeds.”
Jacko looks offended. “That happened once.”
“The coach leaves at ten. Don’t be late.”
As he leaves, Ollie pipes up, “Should we bring anything?”
“Your manners,” Mike shouts from the hallway.
Later, as I’m throwing my kit bag into the back of my car, I check my phone. There’s still no message from Sophie. I debate texting her. Something casual. Flirty. Or honest, which is worse. Instead, I flick open Notes and start typing.
You should’ve seen Ollie’s face when we told him I stayed over. Kid looked like I just admitted I murdered Santa.
Mike’s got us doing a hospital visit tomorrow. PR thing. But this one feels different. Some kid knows all our stats.
Anyway, hope your toaster survived the trauma. Miss your coffee.
I don’t send it. Not yet. I just stare at her contact for a long time, my thumb hovering. Because no matter what Sophie says about this being fake, nothing about last night felt pretend.
And that’s the most dangerous part.