Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MURPHY
The guys are already half a pint down by the time I saunter into the pub like I own the place, which, to be fair, I basically do. Not legally or anything. Just spiritually.
Jacko’s wedged into the booth like a sentient fridge freezer, The Rookie’s yelling something about Northerners being genetically superior, and Dylan, our captain of brooding, is nursing a pint and looking like someone just ran over his puppy and gave him a hug afterward, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about either.
“Murph!” Ollie waves at me like a toddler whose dad just got home from work.
“Boys,” I say, throwing my arms wide as I approach. “Prepare yourselves. I’ve arrived, I’m handsome, and I smell of Sophie’s conditioner.”
The rookie groans. “Christ. It’s been, what, four days? And you’ve turned into a walking Pinterest quote.”
I drop into the seat next to Jacko and steal a chip off his plate. “Love does that to a man. Expands the heart. Softens the soul. Gives me an almost psychotic attachment to hoodies that smell like her.”
Ollie squints at me. “You’re wearing her hoodie?”
“No, she’s wearing mine. But I think I miss it more than my nan’s Yorkshire puddings.”
“Why do I feel like you’re one head tilt away from writing her a sonnet?” Dylan mutters without looking up.
“Jealousy’s a bad colour on you, Wintry D.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Besides, it’s boys’ night. No brooding allowed. It’s a pub, not your emotional dungeon.”
Dylan glares at his pint like it personally offended him.
Jacko grunts a laugh. “You lot are chaos.”
“Not me,” Ollie says. “I’m wholesome.”
“You sent me a photo of your abs at one a.m. last night,” Jacko replies.
“Because I was proud!”
“You added sparkles to it, mate.”
“Details.”
Ollie downs the rest of his pint and slams it on the table. “Right. Let’s get the rounds going before Murphy starts quoting Shakespeare.”
“Already ahead of you,” I say, standing up. “Who’s having what?”
Everyone calls out orders like I’m some kind of booze butler, and I head to the bar with Dylan trailing after me, probably to “help” but really to get away from the joy and warmth of human connection.
As we wait for the barman, I nudge him. “You alright, man?”
He shrugs.
Which is Dylan-speak for no, but I’ll never say it out loud because vulnerability is for post-game press conferences and private physio sessions.
“You wanna talk about it or shall I just roast you until you snap?”
He finally cracks a faint smile. “Roast me. It’s easier.”
“Great. Your hair looks like it’s trying to escape your head, your mood’s so dark I’m worried you might summon a storm cloud, and the last time you smiled properly was when you punched that guy from Cardiff.”
He snorts then says, “My dad’s been texting. Right out of the blue, said he’s been thinking about visiting.”
Turning to him, I study his features trying to gauge my response. “Unexpected. How do you feel about that?” I throw it back to him to unpick.
Dylan shrugs and shakes his head slightly. “Mum thinks it would be a good idea but part of me thinks he’s only interested now I’m doing ok.”
“Well, there is that. He hasn’t shown any interest for years. Why now? That’s what I’d be asking him before I made any decisions.”
The bartender lays out the drinks order on the bar, halting the conversation.
I hand him a pint. “Now drink this and try to look less like a tortured poet.”
We head back to the booth and squeeze in just as Jacko’s explaining the difference between Genoise and Victoria sponge with the passion of a man defending his first-born child.
“…and that’s why you never overmix once the flour’s in,” Jacko says, solemn.
Ollie blinks. “Mate. You bake when you’re stressed. You bake when you’re not stressed. You bake more than my nan.”
“Your nan uses Betty Crocker boxes,” Jacko says, offended.
I lean over. “Do we need to stage a flourvention?”
Jacko rolls his eyes. “I like baking. Sue me.”
“Actually, I respect it,” Dylan says suddenly. “The lemon drizzle you brought last week slapped.”
Jacko looks almost shy at the praise. Which is hilarious because this man could body-check a tank.
“I like making stuff,” Jacko says, shrugging. “Keeps my head right.”
“I knew it,” I say, slapping the table. “Our gentle giant’s got a Mary Berry soul.”
“He’s gonna start bringing piping bags to away games,” Ollie mutters.
“I do bring piping bags to away games.”
Everyone stops.
Jacko just sips his pint and raises an eyebrow like what of it.
“I love this man,” Ollie says.
“I bet you name your sourdough starter,” I say.
“All three of them,” Jacko replies. “Dave, Pamela, and Little Trev.”
I wheeze.
“You’re serious,” Dylan says.
“I respect the culture,” Jacko says, straight-faced. “Little Trev’s a diva. Doesn’t rise unless the room’s exactly 24 degrees.”
“Mate,” I laugh, “you’re one soggy bottom away from a Bake Off tattoo.”
Jacko grins. “Already got one.”
We all lunge to see it, but he just smirks and says, “Top of my thigh. You’ve got to earn the reveal.”
Ollie leans back, smirking. “Speaking of reveals, Murph. Are you going to tell us how many times you’ve shagged Sophie since Saturday or are we all just meant to guess?”
Dylan groans into his pint. “Don’t encourage him.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Finally, someone’s curious about my journey.”
“It’s not curiosity,” Dylan mutters. “It’s dread.”
“She’s class, though,” Jacko says, giving me a rare, sincere nod. “Nice girl.”
“She is,” I say, suddenly full of a warm, fizzy feeling in my chest. “Proper smart. Funny. Doesn’t let me get away with anything. And she smells like heaven and soap and maybe a tiny bit like cinnamon.”
“Have you met her mum yet?” Ollie asks.
“Not yet. But I’ve seen photos. The genes are strong, my friend.”
“She got sisters?” The rookie asks.
“She does. And they would eat you alive, man.”
The rookie smirks. “I like a challenge.”
Jacko leans over. “Do not mess with Sophie’s family, mate. I heard one of her cousins once broke a lad’s finger for flirting with her at a wedding.”
Dylan finally chimes in. “So, is this it then?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “You and Sophie. It feels serious.”
I don’t even hesitate. “It is.”
There’s a beat of silence.
And then Ollie goes, “Awwwwwww,” like a Disney sidekick.
I throw a chip at him.
“She makes me want to be better,” I say, suddenly realising the words are true even as I say them. “She sees the gobshite but also… I dunno. The rest of me.”
“You have a rest of you?” Ollie says, mock-gasping.
“Turns out, yeah. And it likes brunch.”
Jacko raises his pint. “To brunch. And Bake Off. And Murphy not being an emotional grenade anymore.”
We all cheers.
Even Dylan cracks a half-smile.
For the next hour, we talk rubbish, drink pints, and debate whether you’d rather fight one horse-sized duck or fifty duck-sized horses.
Jacko has a whole strategy involving a sourdough distraction.
Ollie accidentally spills his drink, the rookie tries to chat up the bartender and gets shut down spectacularly, and I make Dylan laugh so hard he nearly chokes on his crisps.
By the time we leave it’s dark out, and we’re swaying slightly with warmth and familiarity.
The night’s been dumb and messy and perfect. Just like us. And as we spill out into the cold air, I can’t help thinking maybe love doesn’t make you soft.
Maybe it just makes you real.