Chapter 50
CHAPTER FIFTY
MURPHY
“You alright, mate? You’ve got that haunted Victorian orphan look again,” I say, nodding at Dylan, who’s been staring into his drink as though it personally offended his entire family.
He blinks, almost as if he’s dragged back from some dark place. “Just tired.”
“You say that, but you haven’t touched your chips. That’s how I know it’s serious.” I wave a crisp golden chip under his nose, but he barely flinches.
Dylan finally cracks a small grin. “Just thinking. About the game and my dad. Usual head stuff.”
I nod like I understand, which, on some level, I do.
Dylan’s been wound tighter than a drum lately.
Always brooding. Always carrying that invisible weight like it’s some kind of professional hockey accessory.
But tonight? Tonight isn’t about fixing his existential crises.
Tonight is about beers, crisps, and me working up the nerve to admit I might’ve just signed up for the most grown-up thing I’ve ever done.
“Sophie and I got the flat,” I say casually, as if my heart isn’t doing backflips inside my chest.
Dylan’s head jerks up. “Wait, the one with the extra bedroom and the underground garage?”
“Yeah, that one.” I grin. “Signed the paperwork this morning. We move in next month.”
He whistles low and slow. “Bloody hell. You two are really doing it.”
“I know.” I take a swig of my pint. “Full domestic bliss. I even Googled how to clean a washing machine. Twice.”
Dylan laughs properly this time, that low, rough chuckle of his that sounds like a secret weapon. “Proud of you, mate.”
“Cheers.” I shrug, trying to look casual, but honestly? I’m excited and terrified in equal measures. “I’m psyched, but also kind of freaking out. What if Sophie realises I’m actually just a well-dressed raccoon pretending to be a functioning adult?”
Dylan raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching. “She already knows. That’s what love is.”
We clink glasses. It’s a rare moment of peace between us. No locker room banter. No drills. Just two blokes figuring it out.
I’m halfway through my second pint when my phone buzzes. I glance down and see it’s Layla, my agent. I know this is gonna be one of those calls.
“Hang on a sec,” I say, pushing my pint aside. “Gotta take this.”
I step outside, the cold air hitting me like a slap. The night feels sharp and alive, but I’m feeling anything but.
“Murphy speaking,” I say when I answer.
“Hey, Murph. It’s Layla.” Her voice is brisk, efficient, like she’s running the world one deal at a time. “Are you free next Thursday night?”
I pause. “Define free.”
“Our main sponsor is hosting a gala. They want you front and centre. Red carpet, press flashes, the whole show.”
I groan. “Do I have to wear actual shoes?”
“Yes. And a suit. And maybe pretend you didn’t spend the last ten years perfecting the art of lobbing pucks at other grown men.”
I laugh despite myself. “Fine. Do I at least get fed?”
“Open bar. And your face plastered on a giant poster. Try not to spill anything on it.”
“Great.” I stare up at the sky for a beat, the stars a blur behind my tired eyes. “Real adulthood, coming at me from all sides.”
Layla’s voice softens a little. “Don’t worry. You’ll charm them all. Just like you do on the ice.”
I smile. “That’s the plan. Thanks, Layla. I’ll pencil it in.”
We hang up, and I head back inside, where Dylan is watching me with a raised eyebrow.
“So,” he says. “Big night?”
“Yeah. Charity gala. I have to get all fancy. Probably hate every second.” I shake my head and pull my pint back into reach.
“And the flat? Moving in next week, you said?”
“Next month,” I correct him with an eye-roll. “We can’t move in until our leases end. Sophie’s got two weeks left on hers, and I’ve got three. So we’re stuck in this weird limbo of packing boxes in one place while living in another.”
Dylan laughs. “Sounds like the worst kind of torture.”
“It really is. I’m counting the days, and trust me, I’m not subtle about it. I want to get in there, start claiming my corner of the couch, and stop living out of suitcases and takeaway cartons.”
Sophie’s been way more patient about it than me, which is both impressive and frustrating. She’s the picture of calm adulting, folding clothes and labelling boxes as though she’s preparing for a military operation.
Meanwhile, I’m over here dramatically mourning every day I spend away from the new flat.
“Maybe you need to take a leaf out of Sophie’s book,” Dylan says, nudging me. “Calm down and embrace the chaos.”
“Mate, I’m too calm on the inside. You wouldn’t believe the dramatic speeches I give to my toothbrush every morning.”
He laughs again. “Well, once you move in, you’ll have to deal with joint spice rack ownership. That’s a whole new level of commitment.”
“Don’t remind me.” I shake my head, smiling despite myself.
Later, as the night winds down and the pub starts to empty, I’m nursing my pint when my phone buzzes again.
Sophie: “Can’t wait for us to finally have a place together. Think of all the terrible dance moves and burnt dinners awaiting us.”
I grin, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Murphy: “And all the socks I’ll leave in random places. Your new flat will never be the same.”
I tuck my phone away, feeling that familiar buzz in my chest, the kind that tells me I’m exactly where I need to be, even if the grown-up stuff takes a while to catch up.
Because at the end of the day, it’s not the flat or the fancy events that matter, it’s the people you share it all with.
And with Sophie? I’m ready to handle whatever comes next.