Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
MURPHY
Turns out, waking up with Sophie tangled around me is my new favourite thing.
Even better than scoring the winning goal or finding an extra chicken nugget in a six-pack.
Her hair’s a mess, her mouth slightly open, and she makes this soft humming noise in her sleep that I swear is better than any lullaby.
I should get up. Training starts in an hour and I’ve got no business still being in bed. But I can’t bring myself to move. Not when her leg’s slung over mine and her arm’s tucked against my chest like she belongs there.
Because she does. Christ, she does.
“You’re staring,” she mumbles, not even opening her eyes.
“Can you blame me? You’re fit.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re clingy in the mornings.”
“You love it.”
She cracks one eye open. “Unfortunately, I do.”
Eventually, I drag myself out of bed, kiss her half a dozen times more than necessary, and head to the rink. The guys give me a hard time for showing up late, but I’m in too good a mood to care.
Jonno puts us through hell. Drills. Sprints. Stick work until my arms feel like noodles. Dylan skates up beside me at one point, smirking.
“Someone’s got post-shag stamina.”
I bark a laugh. “Jealous?”
“Terrified,” he mutters. “Mia’s going to make me do yoga again.”
After training, I shower quick and shoot Sophie a text.
Murphy: Still alive. Barely. Send snacks or nudes.
She replies almost instantly.
Sophie: Can do one better. Meet me at mine. Pasta and the possibility of seeing me in nothing but socks.
I jog the rest of the way to my car.
At her flat, the door swings open before I can knock. She’s in tiny shorts and a hoodie that looks suspiciously like one I left here. Her hair’s up, cheeks flushed, and she’s holding a bowl of crisps.
“This is the welcome I deserve.”
“You’re sweaty. Don’t touch me until you smell less like a locker room.”
I lean in anyway, pressing my nose to her neck.
“Murph!”
“You love it,” I say again, stealing a crisp and her attention with a quick kiss.
We spend the afternoon like that. Eating, bickering, kissing. She sprawls on the sofa while I massage her feet, mock-complaining about her choice in TV. She tells me I snore. I tell her she talks in her sleep about weird work stuff.
It’s good. Too good, maybe.
Later, while she’s curled against me, tracing patterns on my chest, she says, “You know we’re disgusting, right?”
“Hopelessly loved-up? Absolutely.”
She snorts. “Do we care?”
“Not even a bit.”
We lie there for a while in the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty. Just full of unsaid things we already know.
I kiss her forehead. “You, me, this... I’m all in.”
She looks up, eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them. “Yeah. I know. Me too.”
And I believe her. I believe every word.
Even if I have no idea how I got this lucky.
And I’m going to try my damn hardest not to mess it up.
Sophie breaks the moment in a way only she can. “Shit! I forgot Mia invited us over for games night at theirs.” She’s diving off the sofa and heading to the bedroom before I can blink. “Murphy! We need to leave. Like, ten minutes ago.”
To save time, I jump in the shower with her. Only that makes us even more late.
Dylan opens the door shirtless, with a beer already in hand. “Welcome to the Thunderdome,” he announces, stepping aside to let us in.
Mia appears behind him, rolling her eyes. “It’s Monopoly, not mortal combat.”
Jacko’s already parked at the kitchen island, carefully placing cupcakes onto a stand like it’s a Bake Off finale. He’s in a hoodie that says ‘I Bake Because I Punch People Legally’. Fitting.
“Jacko,” I greet, nodding. “You spoil us.”
“Vanilla sponge, raspberry jam, lemon buttercream. Try not to shag them before the first round starts.”
Ollie pokes his head out from the living room. “Did someone say shagging?”
“Back in your box, Ol,” I call, dropping onto the sofa. “You still owe me from the last game night. You mortgaged half of your portfolio to buy Mayfair. Even I don’t know how that happened.”
Sophie slips off her coat and plops beside me, stealing the remote like she owns the place. “Is this the part where you all pretend to be cutthroat capitalists for three hours and Jacko inevitably bankrupts everyone through baked bribery?”
“He’s got a system,” Dylan mutters, setting down more beers.
“He’s got a death wish,” Ollie groans. “He traded me cupcakes for Park Lane and then crushed me.”
Jacko looks smug. “Capitalism, baby.”
We settle into the living room. Dylan and Mia curled into one end of the massive L-shaped sofa, Ollie cross-legged on the floor with the game board between us, and Sophie practically in my lap despite insisting she needed “space to crush you all financially.”
The game begins in the usual chaos. Ollie rolling doubles three times in a row and declaring himself “the chosen one,” Mia reading every rule out loud just to annoy Dylan, Jacko offering illegal cupcake deals to get out of jail.
“Right,” I say, grinning as I land on Free Parking. “That’s mine. I’m rich, bitches.”
“Free Parking isn’t supposed to give you money!” Mia objects.
“House rules,” Dylan says. “Let the man have his pile of cash. It’ll be gone in ten minutes anyway.”
Sophie leans in and whispers, “He loses on purpose to distract from his emotional instability.”
I raise a brow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Jacko passes me a cupcake. “For when you bankrupt yourself emotionally too.”
It’s easy, this rhythm. Laughter, jokes, teasing that’s edged with affection. A proper little found-family setup.
But somewhere between Ollie accidentally tipping over the Chance pile and Jacko reenacting a property bidding war using voices from Bake Off, my phone buzzes.
I check it without thinking and freeze.
A DM.
From her.
Tabloid Girl.
I barely glance at it. Just a single waving hand emoji and a “Saw you on the club’s Insta story. Miss me?”
I lock my phone and shove it in my back pocket, but Sophie must catch the flicker of tension across my face.
“You okay?” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly.
She studies me for a second. Not accusing. Just curious.
But I plaster on a smile. “Thinking about how to con you out of your last hotel.”
“You wish,” she says, nudging me with her foot under the table.
And it works. The moment slips past. Forgotten. Buried under more cupcakes and Ollie’s accidental bankruptcy and Dylan getting into an argument with Mia over whether or not utilities are a scam.
But the DM is still sitting there like a time bomb in my pocket.
And I hate how part of me didn’t delete it straight away.