Chapter 46
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
MURPHY
My knee’s acting up again.
Not that I’m going to admit it to anyone besides Mia, but it’s got that low-level ache that hums just beneath everything else.
Not sharp enough to bench me. But it’s enough to make the last two games feel longer than they should, especially with the way I’ve been trying to impress a certain pocket-sized hurricane with red lipstick and a raised eyebrow that can level a man.
The rink’s quieter now, post-practice lull hanging in the air like the smell of stale sweat and triumph. Mia’s setting up in the treatment room, already in full no-nonsense mode. I slide in, pretending I’m not limping.
She doesn’t look up. “Murphy. You’re not fooling anyone.”
“Bit harsh,” I say, easing onto the treatment table. “Could’ve at least pretended I was subtle about it.”
Mia finally glances at me, smirking. “You? Subtle?”
Fair. “Touché.”
She grabs her tape and gestures to my leg. “How long’s it been bothering you?”
I shrug, the universal language of ‘too long but I’m too stubborn to say it out loud.’ She sighs, peels up my compression sleeve, and starts palpating my knee as though it personally offended her.
I wince. “Christ, Clarke, maybe buy me a drink first.”
She snorts. “That line work on Sophie?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Actually, yes. Because I’ve heard she’s still debating moving in with you, and I’m trying to gauge if she’s lost all her sense or just most of it.”
I lean back on my elbows, watching her with a grin. “So she has been talking to you.”
She arches an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
“Let’s say hopeful.” I tilt my head. “So? What’s the verdict?”
“She’s sceptical. And smart. Which you already know.”
“Course I do. I like that she doesn’t just roll over and say yes to everything. Even if it’d make things easier.”
Mia applies a little more pressure and I groan. “Yeah, well. You’re asking her to give up her place, her space, her autonomy. That’s a big ask. She’s not some puck bunny who’s gonna leap into your bed full-time because you’ve got a decent jawline and a shelf of takeaway menus.”
“Decent?” I feign offence. “I’ve been called devastating.”
She laughs. “Devastatingly full of it, maybe.”
There’s a pause. She tapes up my knee with practiced efficiency. I watch her fingers move, steady and sure.
“I’m not trying to crowd her,” I say, quieter now. “I just don’t want to waste time. I’ve done the meaningless stuff. The short-term. The casual. This feels real. Something I want to protect, not tiptoe around.”
Mia softens. “Then don’t push. Let her come to it in her own time. If it’s real, it’ll happen. You just have to be patient.”
“Not exactly my strong suit.”
She finishes the tape and pats my leg. “Try.”
I swing my legs over the side of the table, giving her a crooked smile. “Thanks, Clarke.”
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t screw it up.”
“Now that,” I say, hopping off the table with a grin, “is solid medical advice.”
I catch her smirk as I head out.
Still taped. Still aching. Still hopelessly smitten.
But maybe a little closer to something that lasts.
I drive home with the windows cracked, letting the cold air snap at my face like it might knock some sense into me. Sophie’s voice is on a loop in my head. Her reasons. Her questions. Why does she have to move into my place? Why can’t I move into hers?
I couldn’t answer properly then. Not really. I dodged with a joke and changed the subject with my mouth. Classic me.
The truth? I love my flat. It’s messy, sure. It smells of gear bags more often than not, and the neighbours definitely hate me. But it’s mine. The first real place I ever lived in that didn’t come with a bunk bed or a curfew. The first place that felt as though something I earned.
Giving it up feels like giving up a little piece of who I was before her. And maybe that’s selfish. Maybe that’s part of the problem.
But I’m not asking her to give everything up either. I’m not asking her to erase her independence or box up her candles and her aesthetic throw cushions. I just want us to build something new. Together.
And yeah, I’ve got stuff to work on. I know that. I’m messy. I talk too much. I leave empty mugs everywhere and sometimes I forget that love doesn’t fix everything, it just gives you something worth fixing it for.
She’s everything I didn’t know I was looking for. And if I have to wait until she’s ready? I will.
Because I’ve seen the future and it looks like her on my sofa in my hoodie, laughing at something stupid I’ve said while her knees are tucked under her and her hair’s tied up, in the wild curly way that makes it look like she has corkscrews coming out of her head.
It looks like slow mornings and shared coffee and her toothbrush next to mine.
It looks like home.
And I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Even the cup.
Even the game.
Even the win.