Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
MURPHY
Training days after a game are always rough, but today? Today Coach has a vendetta. We’re barely ten minutes in and I’m already seeing stars. Skates bite into the ice, legs burning, and my lungs are on fire. I can taste blood at the back of my throat.
“Again!” Coach bellows, blowing his whistle as if it owes him money.
Ollie groans beside me, his stick dragging across the ice. “What did we do to deserve this?”
“Exist,” I mutter, pushing off for another sprint, legs moving on autopilot.
It’s chaos. Beautiful, punishing chaos. The kind of session that makes you question why you ever fell in love with hockey.
Why your joints feel eighty years old by the end of it.
But these days, it’s not just the game that’s got my heart running laps.
It’s the fact someone like Sophie’s waiting on the other end of this grind.
I love it.
Hate it.
Love it again.
Dylan’s laser-focused, shoulders stiff, skating as though he’s trying to outrun something that’s clinging to his back.
Jacko, on the other hand, won’t shut up. He chirps every chance he gets, trying to keep morale up like it’s his second job.
“You look like you’re skating through soup, Murph,” he calls as I power through drills. “That posh date got you soft already?”
“Not soft, mate,” I shoot back, panting. “Just conserving energy for when you start crying halfway through suicides.”
The guys laugh. Even Coach lets out a grudging snort.
Jacko grins, helmet slightly askew. “You and Sophie looked very coupley last night. I saw the pics online. ‘Murphy’s mystery girl is a stunner’, that was the headline. Can’t believe you pulled her.”
“She’s got a concussion, obviously,” I say, deadpan.
Jacko presses a hand to his chest in a mock swoon. “Imagine getting injured and waking up thinking Murphy’s a catch.”
“Mate, you’re just bitter because I don’t bring you pastries like Sophie brings me coffee.”
That gets a loud “Oooooh!” from the guys. Jacko throws a glove at me.
“That was lemon drizzle, thank you very much.”
“Oh, we know it was lemon drizzle,” I grin. “You told us eight times. You offered it to Coach like you were trying to get adopted.”
“I bake under stress!” Jacko defends. “It’s that or punch someone in the face. The lemon drizzle is for your safety.”
Coach finally cuts the drill and gives us a water break. I collapse onto the bench, dragging off my helmet and letting the cold air hit my face.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I check it, expecting a text from Sophie.
It’s not, it’s a call from my agent, Layla.
Shit.
I hesitate before answering. “Yo, Murph.”
“Samuel,” she says sharply, all clipped vowels and businesslike precision. I sit up straighter on instinct. “Photos from last night are everywhere. Brilliant work.”
“Oh. Uh, thanks?”
“We’ve had four sponsorship inquiries in the last hour,” she continues, already in full PR mode. “The energy drink brand wants to renew. A local healthy-eating chain is interested, ironic, but we’ll take it. And the outdoor gear brand wants a full winter campaign. With you and Sophie. Together.”
My throat goes dry. “They want both of us?”
“You’re a hit. The wholesome angle is playing like a dream,” Layla says breezily. “Low-stakes romance meets bad-boy redemption arc. Exactly what we needed to reframe your brand.”
Right. My brand.
“Right. Yeah. Good.”
Only it’s not fake anymore. Not for me. Not for Sophie either. And hearing Layla make out like we’re still staging something for the cameras, as though that kiss outside the restaurant wasn’t real. It twists something in my gut.
Sophie isn’t a game.
Layla barrels on, “We’ll need fresh content by next week. Candids that don’t look posed. Cozy winter vibes, hand-holding, laughing at nothing. You know the drill. You’ll smash it.”
“Sure,” I say, voice like sandpaper. “Send it through.”
When the call ends, I just sit there, helmet resting between my knees, staring at the phone as if it’s personally betrayed me.
The lads are still bantering, Jacko’s rambling about a rhubarb shortbread he saw on Bake Off, but it all blurs into background noise.
All I can think about is Sophie.
How good she looked last night in that dress. How she laughed across the table like I was the funniest bastard alive. How she curled into me in the car like I was safe.
How I didn’t tell Layla the truth.
She thinks it’s still fake. Still a stunt. And I let her.
That kiss outside the restaurant? That was real. The way Sophie looked at me after, like maybe I was more than the guy who used to crash press events hungover and forget sponsors’ names... that was real too.
And I didn’t say a word.
I dig my phone back out and scroll through to her name. My thumb hovers. Then I press call.
She picks up on the second ring. “Hey you.”
Her voice alone settles something in my chest.
“Hey,” I say. “Got a minute?”
“Always,” she says, softer now. “What’s up?”
“I just got off the phone with Layla.” I run a hand through my sweaty hair. “She’s got the brands frothing over our photos. Wants more fake couple content.”
Sophie pauses. “Ah.”
“Yeah. And I… I didn’t tell her it’s not fake anymore.”
Silence.
“I should’ve,” I rush to add. “I wanted to. But it was all business-speak and campaign briefs and fucking candids that don’t look posed, and I just… froze.”
“I get it,” she says quietly.
“I don’t want to keep pretending, Soph,” I say, throat tightening. “Not anymore. Not when this feels like the first real thing I’ve had in ages. I don’t want to play at being your boyfriend. I want to be your boyfriend.”
She’s quiet for a beat. Then she says, “You already are.”
My heart stumbles. “I am?”
“You are,” she says, her voice thick with warmth. “You might be an idiot sometimes, but you’re my idiot. We already decided this.”
I let out a breathless laugh. “You really need to work on your compliments.”
“I think they’re perfect.”
“I’m serious though,” I say, voice soft. “I’m gonna tell Layla. We’ll do the shoots if you want to, yeah, but I’ll make it clear we’re not faking it. Not anymore.”
“It’s real,” she says. “All of it. And if you want to tell her, do it. I’ve got your back.”
“I’ve got yours too,” I murmur. “Even when you make me take ten selfies just to get one good one.”
“That’s called quality control.”
“Yeah, well, quality girl deserves quality effort,” I say.
There’s a pause, before she giggles and says, “That was weirdly smooth.”
“I’ve been saving it.”
We hang up a few minutes later, after a bit of teasing and one very smug reminder from Sophie that I’m officially punching way above my weight.
Coach yells for us to line up again.
I tuck my phone away, my chest feels lighter than it’s been in days.
The sponsorships? The media hype? The chaos? It’s just noise.
But Sophie? She’s the signal cutting through it all.
And I’ll never let her be background noise again.