Chapter 68
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
MURPHY
Sophie Hart just knocked Tabloid Girl flat on her designer-heeled arse, and I think I might be in love all over again.
It takes me a second to process it. One blink she’s standing next to the rink, all fury and fire, the next, bam, Tabloid Girl’s sliding halfway across the rink like someone shoved a Barbie doll into a curling match. She’s still floundering, limbs flailing like a wind-up toy running out of battery.
Ollie starts toward her, all good intentions and dumb puppy instincts. “Should we help her up or…?”
Jacko grabs him by the collar and hauls him back. “Leave it, Ol. Trash knows how to take itself out.”
Ollie blinks. “But,”
“Nope. Let natural consequences do their thing.”
I don’t laugh. I can’t. My jaw’s still somewhere near my skates, watching Sophie shake out her hand like she’s just swatted a fly and doesn’t think it was worth the effort. She’s a queen in black jeans and a fitted hoodie, standing tall while the press loses their collective minds.
And she came for me.
I don’t know how long I stand there, staring at her like she might vanish if I blink. Maybe it’s seconds. Maybe it’s hours. The crowd’s still roaring, the echo of my speech still vibrating in my chest, but all I can hear is her voice saying, “I came tonight. That counts for something, right?”
Yeah. It counts for everything.
Jacko finally claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You done being a Disney prince, or do we need to break into song?”
I bark a laugh that comes out like a sigh. “I think I’ve reached my quota of public humiliation for the month.”
“You kidding?” Ollie skates up, still wide-eyed. “You’re trending, actually trending. Twitter loves you. There’s a gif of you that’s already got a million views.”
Great. Viral fame. Just what every emotionally compromised man wants.
I nod to the boys, but my eyes keep drifting back to Sophie. She’s talking to Mia again, rubbing her arms as though she’s cold. Like maybe she’s unsure.
Can’t blame her. I gave her nothing but doubt for weeks.
Coach waves us off the ice for the closing ceremony. The charity execs are all lined up to shake hands and say thank you, and I smile and nod and do the thing, but it’s all muscle memory. My brain is still with her.
When all of the PR stuff is done, I linger at the edge of the rink, still stunned by everything that’s just happened. I can’t move yet. Not when she’s still here.
Sophie’s standing by the boards, arms folded and head held high like she didn’t just turn a whole charity match into the most dramatic love story this arena has ever seen. The crowd’s buzzing. Phones out, flashes going off, people talking over each other about what just went down.
And she’s the eye of it all. Calm, composed, deadly.
Tabloid Girl is still on her arse near centre ice, flapping around like a drunk flamingo trying to regain balance in six-inch stilettos.
Every time she tries to stand, she slips and skids a few feet in some new tragic direction.
Her fake smile’s plastered on her face as though it might glue her dignity back together.
Ollie hesitates. “She looks like she’s drowning in air.”
Jacko leans in. “Lesson one, never rescue the villain in heels. Let karma finish the job.”
I snort and turn back to Sophie, there’s fire in her eyes, but it’s not rage now. It’s something steadier, warmer, a lot like peace.
“You good?” I ask.
She lifts one eyebrow. “Better now. That whole thing was cathartic as hell.”
I glance behind us. “You sure you don’t want to go back out and finish her off? Could grab a stick.”
Sophie grins. “Nah. She’ll be trying to crawl off that ice for another twenty minutes. Let the crowd enjoy it.”
We walk the tunnel together, the distant roar of the arena fading behind us. Someone wolf-whistles as we pass. Ollie again. I can tell by the awkward follow-up, “Sorry! It was supportive!”
I glance at Sophie. “You realise you’ve just become a local legend?”
She shrugs. “What’s one more title?”
Outside, the night’s sharp with cold, but Sophie doesn’t let go of my arm.
We take the long way around to the parking lot, looping past the loading dock and down an empty side street.
It’s quiet for once, no chants, no cameras, just the sound of our boots on pavement and the low hum of traffic beyond.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her, breaking the silence. “Up there. On the ice.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t expect you to forgive me tonight.”
She stops walking and turns to face me.
“I haven’t. Not yet,” she says. “But I saw you try. Really try. That meant something.”
I nod. “It wasn’t just for show.”
“I know that too.”
Her gaze flicks toward the ground, then back up to me. “You looked terrified.”
“I was. Still am.”
“Good,” she says, and then her smile softens. “Means it matters.”
We reach her car, parked under one of the flickering street lamps. Neither of us makes a move to leave yet.
“I’m still angry,” she says. “Still not sure what this means.”
“That’s okay.”
“But I’m here,” she adds. “And I don’t regret it.”
I breathe out a laugh. “You really high-fived me after bodying a woman across the ice.”
She smirks. “You deserved the high-five.”
“I deserved to be drop-kicked too, at one point.”
“I considered it,” she says, “but you’d already been emotionally flattened enough.”
I reach for her hand. “I’ll keep proving you were right to come back tonight.”
Her fingers curl into mine. “You’d better.”
A few fans walk by in the distance, whispering and trying not to stare. One of them calls out, “Oi! Murphy! That was epic!”
Sophie rolls her eyes. “You’re going to be unbearable now, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
We part after a long look and a quick, hesitant kiss that leaves us both smiling like idiots. It’s not a fix. It’s not a finish line. But it’s a start.
The next morning, the press is on fire. Not just about the game or the charity total raised, but us.
Photos of Sophie standing over Tabloid Girl like a triumphant gladiator.
Memes of Jacko holding Ollie back with the caption “Protecting the Himbo.” A video of our high-five that’s been looped to dramatic music.
Even the team’s official account posted a photo with the caption; The real MVP of the night? Sophie Hart.
I text it to her.
Murphy: I think you might’ve replaced me as team fan favourite.
Sophie: Finally, some justice.
I grin and stare at the screen for a second, heart thudding with something dangerously close to hope.
Later that day, Coach calls me into his office.
“That speech last night,” he says, arms folded across his chest, tone unreadable.
I brace for it. “Yeah. I know. Probably crossed a line,”
“It was ballsy,” he cuts in. “And it worked.”
I blink.
He gestures toward his laptop. “Socials blew up. The club’s getting tagged in TikToks with ten million views. Sponsors are thrilled. Management’s already milking it for next week’s broadcast package.”
“Wait, seriously?”
Coach gives a dry smile. “You and your emotion-drenched redemption arc are ratings gold, apparently.”
I scratch the back of my neck. “Didn’t exactly do it for clicks.”
“I know that.” His smile fades, and his expression settles into something more serious. “And for what it’s worth, I think it took guts. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“This team doesn’t need weekly rom-com episodes at centre ice,” he says. “We need you focused. Steady. Playing your game.”
“Right.” I nod. “Understood.”
“And Murphy?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time you need glitter for anything team-related, clear it with me first.”
I grin. “Deal.”
As I leave his office, the viral buzz still ringing in my ears, I don’t feel the urge to top it. No new stunts. No plans brewing.
Because this isn’t about winning her back in one big moment.
It’s about what comes next, every quiet, ordinary day where I prove I’m worth the second chance she hasn’t even fully given me yet.
And maybe that’s the biggest gesture of all.