Chapter 54
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
MURPHY
The smell of sweat, rubber, and adrenaline clings to the rink like it always does. The buzz of skates carving ice, coaches shouting, pucks slapping off boards, it should calm me. Should settle me into the rhythm I’ve known since I was five.
Instead, there’s a tension in the air that coils tighter the second Dylan strides toward me, jaw clenched, phone in hand.
“Murph,” he says, low and urgent. “We need to talk.”
I barely have time to clock the seriousness in his voice before he grabs my arm and steers me down the corridor, away from the rest of the guys who are still warming up or shooting the shit with trainers. Jonno throws us a side-eye but says nothing.
“Jesus, mate,” I mutter, trying to yank my arm free. “What’s your problem?”
He stops walking and thrusts his phone into my face. “What the hell is this?”
My stomach drops.
On the screen is a video clip, grainy but clear enough.
The gala. Me on the balcony with Chloe, Tabloid Girl, her hand on my arm, her mouth close to my ear.
The angle makes it look worse than it was.
The music drowned out what was being said, and someone captioned it like we’re the next bloody soap opera.
Hockey’s Bad Boy Back on the Market? Samuel Murphy Cozying Up with Red Dress Mystery Woman.
I blink. Then another image flashes, it’s a still photo this time. Her hand on my chest. Me mid-laugh, eyes half-lidded. Out of context, it’s damning. It looks intimate. It looks exactly like the sort of thing Sophie would hate.
Dylan doesn’t look smug. He looks furious. Protective. His voice is low but hard. “It’s on Twitter. Insta. Fucking Reddit. You’re all over the fan sites. People are saying you’ve cheated.”
“I didn’t,” I snap.
He gives a bitter laugh. “It doesn’t bloody matter if you didn’t. Look at this shit. You look like you’re enjoying it.”
“She cornered me, Dyl. I didn’t invite her, didn’t want her there. She showed up and latched on like a leech. I told her I was taken, told her to back off.”
“Not hard enough.”
That hits like a slap. I step back as though I’ve been physically shoved. “Are you serious right now?”
“I’m serious about Sophie,” he says, quiet and brutal. “She deserves better than to wake up and see this.”
I flinch.
“I didn’t cheat,” I say again, the words rasping out now. “I didn’t kiss her. I didn’t touch her. I didn’t even want to be near her. I spent half the night texting Soph, wishing she was there.”
“Then why the fuck does it look like you were ready to rip her dress off with your teeth?” he snaps.
“I DON’T KNOW!” The yell echoes down the corridor. Heads turn, but I don’t care. My chest is heaving. “I don’t know. I was trying to be polite. To not make a scene. I kept stepping back, she kept following. I didn’t want drama at a fucking sponsorship event.”
Dylan’s expression doesn’t budge.
I feel myself unravelling. “You know me. Come on. You know I’d never do that to Sophie. She’s everything. She’s it.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you get out of there the second she laid a hand on you?”
“I thought I could handle it. Thought it would blow over. I didn’t know someone was filming!”
He shakes his head, shoving the phone into his pocket as if it disgusts him to still be holding it.
And now I want to punch something. Not him.
Myself. The wall. Anything to stop the roaring panic rising in my throat.
Because I know Sophie. I know how this must’ve looked to her.
I know how the sick twist in her gut she must’ve felt when she saw it.
I know how many times she’s heard stories about hockey players being unfaithful, and how she always said she didn’t want to be someone’s side character.
And now I’ve made her look like one.
Even if I didn’t do a thing wrong.
“She hasn’t answered any of my messages,” I say, voice cracking.
“Can you blame her?” Dylan says, and it’s not cruel. It’s honest.
My hands are shaking.
I fumble for my phone. Open our message thread. She hasn’t left me on read. She hasn’t even opened the last one.
I stare at the blinking cursor for what feels like hours.
Then, finally, I type.
Sophie.
Just her name. That’s all I can give her right now. The digital equivalent of falling to my knees and begging her to see me. To not believe the worst of me. To not let a badly timed photo undo everything we’ve been building.
I send it.
The message goes through but there’s no reply. Then Jonno calls us to the rink, shouting something about paying us too much to stand in corridors daydreaming.
The rink is colder than usual. I’m out of breath, not from sprints but from sheer frustration. The guys sense it. No one teases me today. That’s how bad it is.
I shower in silence. I dress in silence. I check my phone in silence.
Still no reply.
I scroll the fan forums, the sports gossip accounts, and see nothing but me and Chloe.
Zoomed in. Giffed. Hashtagged. The worst part?
The comments. The ones that say he’s just like the others.
The ones that say guess the physio’s friend wasn’t enough for him.
The ones that call Sophie “na?ve” and me “predictable.”
They don’t know a thing about her. Or about us.
Except now, neither do I.
I don’t know if I still have an ‘us’.
I don’t know if I can fix this.
I think of her flat. The framed photos. The toothbrush she keeps in my place. The bag she packed to spend weekends with me. The paint samples she texted me last week. She wanted the living room to be “moody but warm,” like a hug in colour form.
We were going to move in together. I was going to build a life with her. And now I just don’t know anything anymore.
Now I’m the headline she can’t escape.
I drop onto the bench in the locker room, elbows on knees, phone in hand, and try not to lose it completely.
I sit with my head in my hands and my heart clawing at my ribs. The guys are long gone. I should’ve left too. Should’ve followed Dylan out and demanded he back me up instead of tearing me a new one like I’m some dickhead cheat.
I pull out my phone again. Still nothing from her. No dots. No read receipt. Just silence.
I call Layla.
She picks up immediately, all crisp and impatient. “Murphy. I was waiting for this.”
I don’t even waste time. “You have to get them down. The photos. The headlines. Chloe fucking set me up. It wasn’t like that.”
A pause. “I know it wasn’t.”
“Then fix it,” I snap. “Make it go away.”
She sighs as though I’ve asked her to bend time and space. “I’m your agent, not a magician.”
“Layla,”
“I’ve already contacted three of the outlets. They’re not budging. You’re public property when you’re in a tux at a sponsorship event, babe, and Chloe knows exactly how to bait the flashbulbs.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “She knew I’d be there.”
“She made sure you’d be there. Then she made sure you didn’t look like you hated it. And before you ask, yes, it’s all over Twitter. Instagram. Those tabloid TikTok accounts that do dramatic voiceovers.”
I let out a sharp breath. “Sophie saw it.”
Layla’s quiet for a beat. “Then don’t waste your breath trying to erase the internet. You’ll lose.”
“I can’t lose her.”
“Then fight. Show her who you are. Not what some paparazzi pic suggests. Not what Chloe’s trying to spin.”
I scrub both hands down my face. “She won’t even text me back.”
“She will. But you might have to beg.”
I stare at the floor. At the cracked seam in my right trainer. At the mess I’ve made without meaning to. “I didn’t even touch Chloe.”
“But the world thinks you did. So go make sure Sophie knows the difference.”
I nod, throat burning.
“Murphy?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time Chloe comes near you dressed like a headline, run.”
That almost earns a smile.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She hangs up.
And I’m left holding my phone in a locker room that suddenly feels way too big for how small I feel.