Chapter 64
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
SOPHIE
It’s a miracle I haven’t hurled my phone out the window.
Every day, like clockwork, there’s a message. A text. A voice note. Once, even a photo of a terrible drawing he claimed was me, “tragically beautiful and probably hungry”, on the back of a napkin. I didn’t reply. Obviously.
But I didn’t delete it either. Which is annoying. And telling. And not at all the unbothered queen energy I’m supposed to be channelling right now.
Still, I’m doing fine.
Work is busy. My flat is spotless because I’ve developed a frankly concerning relationship with bleach and anti-bac wipes. My makeup game is at an all-time high. If I don’t look like a woman on the verge of an emotional implosion, then I’m winning.
Right?
Tonight is girls’ night again, Dylan will be starting to question our relationship before long, I’m sure.
Mia’s already kicked off her boots and made herself comfortable on my sofa, legs tucked beneath her like she’s lived here forever.
She’s scrolling through her phone while I bring in the snacks, popcorn, chocolate buttons, and a bottle of wine that claims to have “notes of cherry and regret.” Fitting.
“Have you seen this?” she asks, holding up her phone. “The team’s Instagram posted a clip from training. Ollie fell over trying to high-five Murphy and took out three cones like a newborn giraffe on ice.”
“Sounds about right.”
“You want to watch it?”
“Nope.”
Mia gives me a look, it’s mildly amused, mildly exasperated. She’s getting good at those.
“You know,” she says, her tone far too casual, “there’s a home game tomorrow. Could be fun. Big one too, being televised and all.”
I snort. “I’ll pass.”
“Oh, come on. I’ve got a spare family and friends’ ticket. Front row, your usual seat. Best view in the house.”
“I don’t even like hockey.”
She raises a brow. “Really? You watched every game last season.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
I shoot her a withering glare. She sips her wine as though this is all terribly entertaining. “What, exactly, are you getting at, Clarke?”
“Just that for someone who doesn’t care, you sure bring him up a lot.”
“I do not.”
“You do,” she says, annoyingly calm. “Not directly, but it’s all there. In the way you say this song came on in his car once or he hates olives but ate that entire pizza anyway,”
“You’ve made your point.”
She shrugs. “Look, I’m not trying to push you.
I just think you’re still figuring out how you feel.
And maybe seeing him in his element, doing what he loves, might help you get some clarity.
Doesn’t mean you have to talk to him. Doesn’t mean you have to forgive him.
But you deserve to know where you stand, not just where you’ve decided to dig in. ”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something. “That was almost profound. Proud of you.”
“Thank you. I’ve been practicing.”
There’s a pause. It’s as if she knows she’s planted a seed and is waiting to see if it’ll sprout.
“I don’t know,” I mumble, picking at a thread on the throw blanket. “What if I go and it just makes everything worse?”
“Then at least you’ll know. Isn’t that better than sitting around wondering if you should’ve?”
Damn her and her gentle logic.
We switch on the movie and let the conversation drift elsewhere, but her words settle in my chest like static. I hate it. I hate that I’m even considering it.
But I am.
And that’s the problem.
The next morning, I wake up early, groggy and wine-hazy, and check my phone like a woman possessed.
Another message.
Murphy: Hope today’s a bit brighter. Just in case it’s not, here’s Ollie slipping on the ice like a cartoon penguin. Thought you might need a laugh. X
There’s a video attached. I don’t open it. But I also don’t delete it. Again.
Why is he like this? Why is he still trying?
It would almost be easier if he weren’t. If he’d ghosted me, or acted defensive, or tried to shift the blame. But instead, he’s been consistent. Vulnerable. Somehow both annoying and sincere.
And the worst part is, I don’t think he’s performing. I think he means it. Every single stupid message.
By mid-afternoon, Mia texts again.
Mia: Ticket is still available. You can decide up to five minutes before puck drop. No pressure. Just alcohol. And possibly nachos.
I stare at the message as if it’s personally attacking me.
There’s a pair of jeans on the back of the chair I haven’t worn in a month, and I pull them on before I can talk myself out of it. Just to try them. Just to see.
They still fit. Of course they do.
Of course I’m going.
But I’m not going, going.
I’m just showing up. Observing. Gathering intel. Like a sexy, emotionally bruised spy.
I rummage through my wardrobe looking for a top to go with the jeans. It needs to be right. Nothing that screams I’ve tried too hard or that I’m trying to impress him. Because I am absolutely not.
Once I’m happy with my outfit choice, I slick on a little lipstick and perfect my trademark winged eyeliner. And then I grab my bag and head out the door before I have chance to talk myself out of this stupid idea.
The arena is packed. The crowd’s humming with the kind of anticipation that prickles along your skin. Mia meets me by the main entrance, grinning like she knew I’d cave.
“You look great,” she says.
“I look like a fool.”
“Same thing, honestly.”
She walks me to my seat, right by the players’ bench and the noise ratchets up as the team hits the ice. There’s a wave of cheers, horns and stomping feet. I feel like I’m vibrating out of my skin.
Then he appears.
Murphy.
Helmet on. Jersey stretched across broad shoulders. Visor slightly fogged. And for a second, I forget how to breathe.
He looks good. Ridiculously good. Like a walking billboard for heartbreak and second chances. I hate it.
I hate that my pulse stutters when he skates past. I hate that he doesn’t even know I’m here and I’m still reacting like a teenage fangirl.
But most of all, I hate that I can see the weight in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, like he’s carrying the world and trying not to drop it.
“He’s been quieter,” Mia murmurs, almost like she can read my thoughts. “Still himself, but dialled down. Focused.”
“Focused how?”
“Like he’s playing for more than points.”
I chew my bottom lip.
The game kicks off and it’s chaos in the best way; fast, brutal, kinetic.
Murphy takes a hit early but bounces back up, jaw clenched, eyes sharp.
He doesn’t showboat. Doesn’t pander to the crowd.
He just plays. Hard. Clean. As though he’s got something to prove and this is the only way he knows how.
I realise, somewhere around the second period, that I’m gripping the edge of my seat.
I also realise I’ve stopped pretending I don’t care.
And that’s terrifying.
After the game, I don’t go to the pub.
I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
But I leave knowing one thing for sure; this isn’t over. Not for me. Not for him. Not unless I say it is.
And the thing is, I’m not sure I want to.
Because despite everything, despite the anger and the pain and the way my heart still aches when I look at him, I miss him.
Not just the Murphy who made me laugh until I cried. Not just the Murphy who kissed me slow and soft like I was his whole world. But the Murphy who always tried. Who never gave up. Who, even now, is still trying.
So maybe it’s time I stop pretending I don’t see it.
Maybe it’s time I let the door open just a crack.
Not enough to let him back in.
But enough to stop shutting him out completely.