Chapter 60
CHAPTER SIXTY
MURPHY
“Again!” Coach yells from the sideline, voice like a drill sergeant possessed.
I double over, hands on my knees, sweat dripping off my nose. My lungs are on fire and my thighs feel as though they’ve been personally cursed by a vengeful god.
“Did someone piss in his coffee this morning?” I mutter.
Next to me, Ollie wheezes out a breathless laugh. “I think he is the coffee, and he gives me heart palpitations.”
“Less talking, more skating!” Jonno shouts. He’s got a stopwatch in hand and absolutely no soul in his eyes today.
We’re doing suicides across the width of the rink, over and over again. Like it’s not a Tuesday morning in the middle of the season, and we didn’t already give everything we had in the last game.
“This is punishment,” Jacko grunts between strides. “Has to be. Some kind of karmic retribution for all those Bake Off episodes I pirated.”
I bark out a laugh, which is a mistake because I choke on my own spit and nearly trip over my skates.
By the fifth round of suicides, we’re all reduced to grunts and sweat-soaked jerseys. Coach watches like a hawk, pacing behind Jonno, his expression unrelenting.
“Push harder!” he shouts. “You think the playoffs are gonna go easy on you? You want a spot on the top line? Earn it!”
Ollie groans. “I don’t even want a top line. I want a toe tag. Just bury me under the Zamboni and be done with it.”
I laugh again despite myself. This is hell, but it’s familiar.
And right now, the grind is the only thing that makes sense.
Because everything else, Sophie, the breakup, the silence that follows every voice note I send, is a mess I can’t fix.
But here, in this rink, I can skate until I can’t feel anything but lactic acid and hate.
After training, the locker room smells of sweat, blood, and despair. The good stuff.
I peel off my shirt, collapsing onto the bench with a grunt. Jacko tosses me a protein bar like we’re on some kind of survival show.
“You’re welcome, sunshine,” he says. “Made it myself. Oatmeal, chocolate chips, love, and a sprinkle of bitterness.”
“I taste the bitterness,” I mutter with my mouth full. “Pairs well with regret.”
“Speaking of,” Dylan says from across the room, towel slung around his neck. “You coming tonight?”
“The pub?”
He nods. “Team’s heading down after dinner. Mia’s coming too.”
My heart lurches at the mention of her. Not Mia, she’s great, but what she represents. The bridge to Sophie. The one I might’ve burned to ash.
“Yeah,” I say eventually. “I’ll be there.”
The pub is already buzzing by the time I walk in. It’s warm and loud, full of that end-of-training euphoria where everyone smells slightly better than they did a few hours ago and are three pints deep into forgetting their legs hurt.
Jacko’s at the bar chatting with a couple of regulars, probably regaling them with tales of his secret cinnamon bun recipe. Ollie waves me over from a booth, cheeks flushed, beer in hand.
“Murph!” he yells. “Took you long enough. I saved you a seat. And by saved, I mean I threatened to lick it so no one else would take it.”
“Nice to know some things in life are consistent,” I say, dropping into the chair beside him.
“I do what I can.”
Dylan slides in opposite me, pint in hand, looking a little more relaxed than usual. Mia’s standing nearby, deep in conversation with Jonno about God knows what. Probably player recovery or cryo chambers or how best to torture us all.
“Alright?” I ask him, nodding toward Mia.
“She’s good,” he says. Then looks at me as though he’s working up to something. “Look, I’ve been thinking about everything. About you. Sophie. The photos.”
I go quiet.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” he says slowly. “Didn’t want to jump to conclusions. But we’ve all been where you are. Messed things up with someone who mattered and couldn’t figure out how to claw it back. And I can see it in your face, man. You didn’t do what everyone thinks you did.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Thanks,” I say, voice low.
He nods. “Still, you’ve got a mountain to climb. She’s not gonna just forgive you because you said sorry.”
“I know,” I say. “She hasn’t even listened to my voice notes.”
“You left her voice notes?”
“One every day for a week.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Alright, Shakespeare. What kind of stuff are we talking?”
“Nothing cheesy. Just real. Honest. Some of them were just me breathing into the phone, trying to find the words.”
“That’s weird.”
“I am weird.”
He laughs, and it eases the knot in my chest a little.
Mia wanders over then, holding two drinks and eyeing us like she’s trying to read the room.
“Talking about Sophie?” she says, ever the bloodhound.
I nod. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s tattooed on your face.”
I grimace.
She hands me one of the drinks. “From Jacko. He says it’s full of sympathy and brown sugar.”
“Thanks.”
Mia perches on the armrest of the booth. “Listen, I’m not gonna sugar-coat it. She’s not over it. She’s angry, and she’s hurt, and every time your name comes up, she gets this look in her eye like she’s remembering where she put the scissors.”
“Right,” I say, sipping the drink. “Very comforting.”
“But,” she says, holding up a finger. “She’s still talking about it. Which means she still cares. You just need to prove to her that she can trust you again.”
I nod slowly. “How?”
Mia shrugs. “Be consistent. Show up. Don’t push. Don’t try to make her forgive you before she’s ready. Just keep being honest. And patient. You don’t fix trust with one grand gesture. You fix it with one boring, small, steady moment at a time.”
I exhale. “That’s a lot harder than begging at her door.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Which is why it’ll mean more.”
Dylan leans back, folding his arms. “You got people in your corner, Murph. Don’t waste it.”
Ollie, who has been quietly listening to this entire exchange while inhaling chips, finally pipes up.
“Sorry, I was distracted by your emotional growth,” he says. “But can we also talk about how Jacko made mini scones for tonight? Mini. Just the tops. I think he’s gone full wizard.”
Jacko appears out of nowhere like a summoned baking demon and slaps a paper plate down on the table.
“They’re called ‘cloud caps.’ Eat with reverence.”
I stare at the plate.
“They look like tiny hats,” I say.
“They are tiny hats. For your tongue,” Jacko replies, utterly serious.
Everyone laughs, and for a second, the weight on my chest lifts enough to allow me to breathe.
Later, after most of the team has filtered out and the crowd’s thinned to background hum, I find myself alone with Dylan again. We’re leaning on the edge of the bar, beers almost warm, talking low.
“You ever think maybe we don’t deserve forgiveness?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a second. Then, “All the time.”
I glance over.
“But,” he says, “that’s not the point. It’s not about deserving it. It’s about whether the person you hurt thinks you’re worth the risk again.”
“And what if she doesn’t?”
He shrugs. “Then you hurt. And you live with it. And eventually, you keep going. But don’t give up until you know for sure.”
I nod, trying not to let it show how much that hits me.
“Thanks, man.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “Anytime.”
I walk home later than I should, my legs still aching from the morning suicides, my head heavier than my heart wants it to be.
But something in me feels steadier. And maybe I can do this. Not fix it all at once, but start. Build something that lasts. Even if it takes a while.
Even if it’s one stupid voice note at a time.