Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MURPHY
We don’t say much on the way back to mine. We don’t need to. Sophie’s hand is in mine, warm and sure, and the adrenaline from the game is still fizzing in my blood. My body’s knackered, muscles already stiffening, but my mind? It’s wide awake. Lit up.
She’s next to me in the passenger seat, wrapped in her coat, cheeks pink from the cold, and hair tousled from cheering like mad. And I can’t stop glancing over, like I’m trying to make sure she’s really here. That this isn’t some post-goal fever dream.
Because tonight was different.
Not just the goal, though, Christ, what a goal, but the way I knew where she was the whole time.
The way I could feel her, even when I wasn’t looking.
Like she was a lighthouse, and I was skating toward her without even thinking.
That heart I made on the glass? Didn’t even plan it.
Just felt like the only thing that made sense in the moment.
And now she’s here, biting her lip as she watches the streetlights roll past. Maybe she’s nervous too.
“You cold?” I ask, even though the car’s warm.
She shakes her head. “No. Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
She snorts. “You’re the one who skated right up to the glass like a bloody rom-com hero.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining.”
“I’m not. I’m…” Her voice trails off, and when I glance at her again, she’s looking at me with something softer than a smile. “I’m completely gone for you, you idiot.”
And my heart flips.
I pull her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, one by one. “Good. Because I’ve been gone for you since you called me a twat the first time we met.”
She laughs, full and free, and the tension that’s been simmering in my chest ever since I got off the ice breaks apart.
Back at mine, we kick off our shoes, and I shrug out of my coat with a groan. The post-game aches are setting in quick and bruises are blooming already, but I’d take ten more if it meant ending the night like this.
Sophie walks in as though she belongs here. Drops her bag by the door, kicks her shoes off and pads barefoot across the carpet as if she’s done it a hundred times. And I realise, maybe in some part of me, I always wanted this. Her. Here.
“Want tea?” I ask.
“God, yes.”
She sits on the kitchen stool, legs crossed, watching me fumble with the kettle as though it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. I’m still buzzing too much to sit. Still high from the game. From her. From the way she looked at me like I hung the fucking moon.
“You were unreal tonight,” she says. “I’ve never seen you play like that.”
“Because I’ve never had you watching like that.”
She raises an eyebrow, but she’s blushing again, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. I set the mugs down in front of her, and sit opposite, and for a moment we just exist. In the quiet hum of the flat with steam curling from our tea. My bruised ribs aching. Her smile undoing me.
“I meant what I said, you know,” I say. “About being ridiculously in love with you.”
She sets her mug down carefully. “I know. I meant it too.”
And then something locks into place in my chest. A puzzle piece I didn’t realise was missing. Like breathing easier. Like home.
Later, she’s tucked under my duvet, wearing one of my old t-shirts, her bare legs tangled in mine. My hand rests low on her hip, and we’re lying in that quiet, perfect space between talking and sleep.
I should be wrecked. My body’s begging for rest. But I don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to miss a second of this.
She traces lazy circles on my chest. “Does this feel weird?”
“Sleeping with the fittest woman in Britain in my bed? No complaints from me.”
She smacks me lightly. “I meant this. Us.”
I think for a beat. “It feels right.”
“Even with the whole team probably betting on how long it’ll last?”
“Let ’em bet. I’d bet everything I’ve got on you.”
She goes quiet again, fingers still on my skin. “Murph?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I was scared this would ruin things. That we’d try, and it wouldn’t work, and I’d lose you.”
I shift so I can see her face better. She’s not crying, but there’s a pinch in her brow. That deep, thoughtful Sophie expression that always gets me.
“You’re not going to lose me,” I say, threading my fingers through hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She nods, slowly. Then, quietly says, “I don’t want to mess this up.”
I kiss her forehead, her temple, her cheek. “You won’t. We won’t. It’s us, Soph. You and me. We’ve got this.”
She exhales into my neck, and I feel her soften against me, like she believes me.
And maybe for the first time in a long time, I believe it too.
The next morning, I wake up to sunlight and the smell of Sophie in my sheets.
For a second, I think I’m dreaming. Then she shifts, and buries her face in my chest, and lets out the softest sigh.
Not a dream. She’s here.
I don’t move. Don’t dare. Just lie there, soaking it in. The weight of her arm across my stomach. The press of her thigh against mine. The scratch of her hair on my collarbone.
Eventually, she stirs and blinks up at me.
“Morning,” she croaks, voice raspy with sleep.
“Morning, gorgeous.”
She groans and flops onto her back. “Don’t look at me. I definitely have morning breath.”
I roll on my side, propping my head up on my hand. “Still fit. Still mine.”
“You’re so annoying,” she mutters, but she’s grinning.
We laze in bed for longer than we should. Because some things are more important than ice time.
Like pancakes. And Sophie sitting on my kitchen counter in her knickers and one of my hoodies, flipping them like she owns the place.
“Okay,” she says eventually, biting into a strawberry and narrowing her eyes at me. “When are we telling the team?”
I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. “You want to?”
She shrugs. “It’s not like we can hide it now. You made a heart on live TV.”
“Yeah, alright, that’s fair.”
She hops down and comes over, wrapping her arms around my waist. “I just don’t want this to be a secret.”
“Then it’s not.”
“You’re not worried what they’ll say?”
“I’m more worried about you stealing my hoodies.”
She grins against my chest. “Too late.”
That night we walk into the pub together, hand in hand, and it’s as though the room falls quiet for a second. Then Jacko lets out a triumphant whoop, and Ollie starts clapping.
“Called it!” The rookie shouts. “Pay up, lads!”
I just roll my eyes and pull Sophie closer, ignoring the ribbing. Because yeah, they can tease all they want. They don’t get it. They didn’t see the way she looked at me after that goal.
They don’t know what it feels like to wake up next to someone who makes the whole world quieter. They don’t know what it means to stop pretending, and finally be real.
And if this is what real feels like? Then I’m all in.