Chapter 66
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
MURPHY
I’ve never planned anything this complicated in my life, and I once organised a surprise birthday for Jacko that involved a chocolate fountain, a fire-eater, and a rogue alpaca.
This? This is bigger.
This is everything.
I don’t sleep much the night after the pub. I lie in bed with my brain bouncing off the walls, rehearsing every word I want to say, every second I want her to hear it. I picture Sophie’s face, all fierce, guarded, heartbreak carved into the lines around her mouth, and I wonder if I’m too late.
But I’m doing it anyway.
Because I love her.
And I won’t let her walk away thinking I didn’t fight for her.
First stop; Dylan.
I find him already at the rink, flipping through practice sheets with a mug the size of his head.
“You still in?” I ask, heart thumping like I’m about to propose.
He nods without looking up. “Coach said it’s unorthodox, but you’re cleared for three minutes post-game. Arena manager’s cool with it as long as you don’t swear or set anything on fire. Or get naked. That was a hard pass.”
“I make no promises.”
He smirks. “You sorted what you’re gonna say?”
“Half-written. But I know the bones of it.”
He leans back in his chair. “This is gonna be messy.”
I grin. “Have you met me?”
Next stop; Jacko and Ollie.
And if I’d had any faith that they’d behave professionally about this, it’s gone the second I mention “coordinated distraction.”
“You want us,” Jacko says, pointing between him and Ollie like we’re at a police lineup, “to manage crowd control during your big speech?”
“I want you to hold up signs.”
Ollie perks up. “Like flashcards?”
“Exactly. But not cheesy. And no typos. And nothing that makes me sound like a Disney villain.”
Jacko scratches his beard. “Define cheesy.”
“No hearts. No glitter. No rhymes. And if you make a pun, I will legally change your name to Susan.”
Ollie’s already sketching on a napkin. “What if we start with ‘She’s here’? Build tension. Like, SHE. IS. HERE. And then you go in for the kill.”
Jacko whistles. “Dramatic. I like it.”
“This isn’t pantomime,” I mutter. “Just make sure the signs don’t distract from what I’m saying.”
“Signs are what you’re saying,” Ollie points out. “They’re the preamble. The foreplay.”
Jacko gives him a slow clap. “Nice.”
I bury my face in my hands.
We sneak into the stadium the next afternoon during a maintenance slot. Ollie has a duffel bag full of poster boards and Sharpies, and Jacko’s stress-eating a flapjack he baked at six this morning because “he works better fed.”
Dylan meets us by the penalty box.
“You’ve got ten minutes before security starts asking questions,” he says. “You rehearsing?”
“Yeah,” I say, though I’m not. Not properly.
Because truth doesn’t need rehearsal. It needs guts.
I walk out to centre ice, empty stands stretching around me. It’s freezing, echoey, and completely surreal.
This is where it’ll happen.
Where I’ll say her name.
Where I’ll tell the world I didn’t cheat. That I love her. That I messed up, not by doing something wrong, but by not stopping the damage fast enough.
Jacko’s voice rings out from the stands.
“HOW ABOUT THIS ONE; ‘SHE’S OUT OF YOUR LEAGUE BUT YOU’RE A PLAYER SO CATCH HER ANYWAY.’”
I stare up at him. “Jacko.”
“What?”
“No.”
Ollie holds up a sign reading
“SORRY I’M A MUFFIN. CAN I BE YOUR SNACK AGAIN?”
I pause. “That’s closer.”
We spend the next two days tightening the plan.
Mia gets us in touch with the announcer. Jacko bribes someone in marketing for a pre-approved media slot. Ollie starts calling in favours from a Uni friend who once ran sound for a music festival.
I start writing.
Not a speech. Just words.
True ones.
And when I get stuck, I read Sophie’s old texts. I play the voice notes she left me back when I was funny, back when she loved me. There’s one where she’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe because I misread the word “quinoa” as “kwin-ooh-ah.” I listen to that one three times in a row.
The night before the game, I panic.
Hard.
Not the sweaty-palmed, maybe-I’ll-throw-up panic. The what-if-this-makes-it-worse panic. Because what if she sees it as manipulation? What if she thinks I’m pulling a stunt, turning her pain into a performance? What if I break her trust more by trying to earn it?
I text Mia just before midnight.
Murphy: Am I an idiot?
Mia: Absolutely. But you’re an idiot in love.
Murphy: What if this just embarrasses her?
Mia: Then you’ll apologise again. Privately. Properly.
Mia: But I think she’s waiting for this.
Mia: She needs to see you mean it loud.
Murphy: I hate how well you know us.
Mia: I ship it harder than Taylor Swift ships heartbreak into albums.
I stare at the screen for a long time before replying.
Murphy: Thanks, Mia.
Mia: Don’t screw it up. I want front row drama.
Game day.
The locker room’s electric. You’d think we were playing for the Cup the way everyone’s buzzing.
Even Coach pulls me aside.
“You got your words ready?”
I nod.
“You sure?”
“Not even remotely.”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Then you’ll do fine.”
The game itself is a blur. I play like a man possessed, but not because I’m showing off. Because I’m counting minutes.
Counting heartbeats.
Counting down to her.
And then it’s time.
Post-game, lights dimmed slightly, announcer giving the cue. The crowd’s buzzing. No one knows what’s coming.
I spot her before I even reach the mic. Mia’s beside her, clearly in on it. Sophie looks wary. Defensive. But she’s watching.
She’s watching.
I take a deep breath and step up to the mic, heart banging against my ribs as if it’s trying to bail out of my chest.
“Evening, everyone,” I start, voice a little hoarse. “Thanks for sticking around. I know this is weird. I promise I’ll be quick.”
There’s a ripple of laughter, a few confused murmurs. Someone halfway up in the second-tier bellows, “LOVE YOU, MURPHY!” and I flash a grin.
But then I see her. Front row, flanked by Mia, her eyes locked on me like she’s bracing for impact. Or maybe escape.
“This isn’t about hockey,” I say, and my voice cracks despite me. “This is about someone I hurt. Someone I love.”
And just as I say it, the lights flicker and two spotlights shoot across the ice.
Enter Ollie and Jacko.
Skating. Wearing matching oversized bowties. Each holding signs that flap wildly as they circle the rink in opposite directions like a pair of drunk cupids.
Jacko’s reads in bold black ink.
“SHE’S OUT OF HIS LEAGUE (BUT HE’S A TRIER)”
Ollie’s flashes up.
“HE’S A MUFFIN. A REGRET-FLAVOURED ONE.”
The crowd bursts into laughter.
I glance at Sophie, she smiles. Just the corner of her mouth, as if she’s trying to hide it. But it’s there. That spark. That crack in the ice.
The boys loop again. Jacko lifts a new sign.
“WE SCREENED HIM. HE’S NOT TOTALLY USELESS.”
Ollie wobbles past with.
“PLEASE GIVE OUR EMOTIONAL SUPPORT GOLDEN RETRIEVER ANOTHER CHANCE”
It even has a wonky doodle of my face wearing a halo and devil horns.
Even I laugh, shoulders shaking with nerves and affection.
I lift the mic again. “Okay, okay. I know this is chaos. But stay with me.”
The crowd’s still chuckling, but the mood’s warmer now. More human.
“This is about Sophie.”
There’s a collective ooh from the fans. It honestly sounds like we’re on EastEnders.
I hold her gaze.
“There’ve been stories. Headlines. Photos that looked damning. I get it. I do. But the truth is I didn’t cheat on you. That photo? That was someone else making a move. I froze. I didn’t shut it down fast enough. And then I let the silence speak for me.”
I glance down, swallow.
“I thought I was protecting you by disappearing. Giving you room. But I realise now I was just making it easier for you to believe the worst about me.”
Ollie and Jacko do one final pass behind me. Jacko’s holding a sign that just says.
“HE’S A MESS. BUT HE’S YOUR MESS (IF YOU’LL HAVE HIM).”
And Ollie’s finale.
“SOPHIE, DON’T MAKE US ADOPT HIM.”
Laughter breaks out again, a wave of it. And this time when I look at her, Sophie’s properly laughing, not just smirking or pretending not to care. Her hand’s half-covering her mouth, but she’s shaking her head with that familiar gleam in her eye that says, God, he’s ridiculous. But he’s mine.
I press forward.
“I’m not asking for forgiveness tonight. That has to be earned. Slowly. Properly. I know that. But I’m standing here, in front of everyone, to say I love you. I’ve never stopped. And I never will.”
I take a step back from the mic.
“And if you ever want to talk, just talk, I’ll be here. No pressure. No performance. Just me.”
Ollie, bless him, holds up one last sign.
“HE CLEANED HIS FLAT. VOLUNTARILY.”
The crowd loses it.
But I only care about one reaction.
Sophie.
She doesn’t run. She doesn’t hide. She looks at me with something raw and open on her face. And in that moment, under stadium lights, with Ollie skating like Bambi on espresso, I think I might’ve just taken the first real step back to her.