Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SOPHIE
Idon’t cry when Murphy hangs up. Which, given my track record with men, is basically personal growth.
I do, however, stare at the phone as though it just insulted my wardrobe choices. Which, again, is growth. Because the old me would’ve called him back and cracked some joke about athletes being emotionally constipated just to cover the tiny ache in her chest.
But this? This is different.
Because Murphy sounded serious. Actually serious. Like this thing between us is more than Instagram fluff and croissants and winking at each other across pubs.
And it is. I know it is. We know it is. The problem is, the world doesn’t. Layla certainly doesn’t, with her sponsorship briefs and staged photo nonsense. She still thinks we’re faking it and playing dress-up for the cameras.
Except I’m not playing. Not anymore.
Which is exactly why I need wine. And backup. Preferably in the form of Mia Clarke.
“You brought what?”
Mia stares at the bag I drop onto her sofa as though I just handed her a ferret.
“Three kinds of cheese, a bottle of red, and the world’s most offensive rom-com.”
“You mean Love, Actually?”
“Ding ding ding,” I sing. “Because nothing says emotional clarity like Hugh Grant dancing through 10 Downing Street.”
She snorts but grabs the corkscrew. “God help me.”
We settle into her sofa like we’ve done a hundred times before; barefoot, snacks balanced on a makeshift platter, the wine already half gone. It’s familiar. Safe. Except this time, I’m buzzing. Not in a drunk way. In a he kissed me like I was the only girl on Earth kind of way.
Mia eyes me over her glass. “Alright. Spill it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Sophie.”
“Fine.” I pause the movie right as Colin Firth is fumbling through Portuguese. “Murphy called me after training today.”
Mia perks up instantly. “And?”
I toss a popcorn kernel in my mouth and chew slowly, just to be annoying. “He said he didn’t correct Layla when she called me his fake girlfriend.”
Mia frowns. “Because he wanted the sponsorships to keep rolling in?”
I shake my head. “Because he panicked. But then he called to confirm that it isn’t fake anymore. That I’m not just part of some brand story.”
Mia’s face softens. “That’s actually kind of lovely.”
“Right?” I pause, then sigh. “Except now I don’t know what to do with that.”
Mia levels me with a look. “Do you like him?”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Bringing cheese and Hugh Grant? What do you think?”
She gives me the slowest blink known to man.
“Okay, fine,” I groan. “Yes. I like him. I really like him. In a ‘think about him when I should be working’ kind of way. In a ‘oh no, he might actually ruin me for other men’ kind of way.”
Mia grins. “Called it.”
“Don’t get smug, Clarke.”
She raises her glass. “Too late.”
We clink glasses. I sink deeper into the sofa.
“I mean, who even is this version of me?” I mutter. “I wore a dress last night. With heels. I let him hold my hand as if we were in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”
Mia tilts her head. “I saw the pictures. You looked gorgeous.”
I smile. “He said the same thing. Twice. And then he kissed me like he meant it.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “He really did.”
Mia studies me, then nudges the popcorn toward me. “So, what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” I say, scooping up a handful, “is that I’m all in. And I don’t know if he even knows how to be. We’ve both said the L word but… well, I don’t know.”
“That man’s an idiot when it comes to feelings, but he’s not faking it.”
“You think?”
“I know,” she says firmly. “I’ve seen how he looks at you. Like he’s trying to memorise every freckle.”
I roll my eyes. “Gross.”
“Romantic,” Mia counters.
“Dangerous,” I add.
She nudges me. “Maybe. But you’ve never been one to play it safe.”
That makes me quiet. Because she’s right. I haven’t. I’ve crashed and burned plenty. Dated losers and love-bombers. But this? This feels different. Not perfect. Not easy. But real.
I drain the rest of my wine and turn to her. “Alright. What about you and Dylan?”
Mia immediately flushes. “We’re not talking about me.”
“Oh, we are,” I say, delighted. “Because you’ve got that post-moving-in glow still.”
“What! I do not have a glow.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Okay, there might be a slight glow. What can I say?” She trails off, cheeks pink.
“Does this mean we double date now? Do we go on wholesome couples’ hikes and make fun of Jacko’s baking attempts?”
Mia groans. “You are insufferable.”
“Correct.”
We both laugh.
And for a moment, everything feels easy again. Two girls, too much wine, and the knowledge that maybe we’ve both stumbled into something good. Because I’m not faking this. Not for the cameras. Not for the sponsors. Not for anyone.
Murphy might be chaos in skates, but he’s my chaos now. And I’m not about to let Layla or anyone else reduce this to a campaign tagline.
Mia nudges me. “Want me to threaten him if he screws it up?”
I grin. “Get in line, Clarke.”
We toast with the last of the wine, the screen flickering in the background, and our laughter echoing through the lounge.
Whatever comes next, I’m ready.
And I’m all in.