Chapter 69
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
SOPHIE
Iwake up the morning after The Great Ice Incident to twenty-three unread messages, three missed calls, and at least a dozen tagged videos of me body-checking Tabloid Girl into the next tax year.
Apparently, that counts as romance now.
One TikTok even has the caption; “When your man apologises and your trauma says ‘prove it,’ so you do.”
Catchy. Possibly merchandisable.
I groan into my pillow and consider throwing my phone into the wall. Or the sea. Or both.
Instead, I do the mature thing; I call Mia.
She answers on the second ring with the energy of someone who’s already had two coffees and is ready to talk shit. “Sophie Hart. Local hero. Slayer of skanks. Defender of emotionally available hockey boys.”
I sigh. “Please stop.”
“Oh no,” she says, “I’m just getting started. You’ve gone full internet icon. There’s fan art. Someone painted you like Joan of Arc with a hockey stick instead of a sword.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Also? That high five?” she adds. “Better than most on-screen kisses. The tension. The timing. The pure uncut drama.”
I drag a hand down my face. “It was instinct. I didn’t go there to make a scene.”
“You went there to see if he meant it,” she says gently. “And then the scene just happened to you.”
“I think I gave someone a concussion.”
“She’ll survive,” Mia says cheerfully. “She’s got the emotional density of a marshmallow and the resilience of a cockroach. She’ll bounce back in time to sell her story to whichever tabloid bids highest.”
I laugh. Then immediately wince, because my chest is tight again, and not from the humiliation.
From everything else.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say, quieter this time.
Mia pauses. “Talk to me.”
I pull the blanket tighter around me and sink into the couch, my legs curled underneath me, as though if I make myself small enough, the feelings will shrink too.
“He meant it,” I whisper. “Every word. I could see it in his face.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I could too.”
“And it wasn’t for show. Not really. Not this time.”
“No,” she agrees. “Not this time.”
“I wanted to hate him,” I admit. “I really, really did. After everything. After the lying and the avoidance and the damn flat…”
“You’re allowed to still be mad.”
“I am still mad.”
“Good,” she says. “Because if you’d watched him pour his soul out on centre ice and then immediately jumped back into his arms like a contestant on The Bachelor, I’d have had to throw something at you.”
“I considered it,” I confess. “For half a second. Right after the speech and before I remembered I have a spine.”
She laughs again, but it fades quickly. “So where does that leave you?”
I stare at the ceiling like it has answers. “In emotional purgatory.”
“Soph.”
“I’m not moving in,” I blurt. “I need you to know that. I’m not moving into the flat. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”
“Okay.”
“Even if he paints every wall with glitter and spells out ‘SORRY’ in fairy lights. Even if he finally figures out that communication doesn’t mean ‘read receipt ignored.’ I need space.”
“Then take space.”
“But last night?” I sigh. “That was the first time in weeks I felt like he was really standing still. Like he was saying, ‘Here I am.’”
“Because he was.”
I press the heel of my hand to my chest. “It scared the hell out of me.”
“Of course it did. That’s because it matters.”
There’s a pause.
Then Mia, because she’s Mia, says, “But also, let’s not gloss over the part where you casually turned a charity match into an action movie. You shoved a woman across a sheet of ice.”
“She looked at me as if I was something she’d stepped in.”
“I’d have drop-kicked her.”
“I figured pushing her was classier.”
“You pushed her like a Greek Goddess throwing thunderbolts.”
I huff out a laugh, despite myself.
“And that high-five?” Mia adds. “That was pure poetry.”
“It felt right,” I admit.
“Because you still love him.”
The words settle into the silence as though they’ve been waiting there all along.
“I do,” I say, because there’s no point pretending. “I think I always did.”
“But love doesn’t erase hurt,” she says. “It just holds space for it.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Exactly.”
“So, hold space. Let it be messy. Let it take time.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
There’s a beat of silence between us.
“You want me to come over?”
“No,” I say. “I need to sit in it a bit longer. Maybe make some angry tea. Watch something where nobody kisses on ice.”
“Die Hard it is.”
“Perfect.”
We hang up, and I stare at the phone for a second longer, heart aching in a way that feels manageable.
Like grief in remission and maybe, possibly, hope.
I don’t text Murphy.
I don’t need to.
He sent me a photo earlier, one of the memes. The one where I’m mid-shove and someone added comic book-style “WHAM!” text above it. His message just said Hero arc unlocked.
I didn’t reply but I saved it.
Because he saw me. Not just in the moment. Not just in the headline. But the me underneath all of it. The girl who shows up, even when it’s hard. Who still believes in people, even when she shouldn’t. Who chooses love, not because it’s easy, but because it’s worth the risk.
And maybe he’s finally learning how to do the same.
The rest of the day unfolds in fragments. I do laundry. I clean the kitchen. I re-watch three episodes of The Bear and cry a little at a scene that isn’t even sad. My body feels like a balloon that’s been too full for too long, deflated, but still stretched thin.
Around three, a delivery arrives. A small white box with my name in Murphy’s handwriting.
Inside is a roll of glitter tape, a toy Zamboni, and a note.
No more speeches. No more stunts. Just me, here, trying. Every day.
You don’t owe me anything. But I’m not going anywhere.
It’s stupid and sweet and small in the best way.
No promises.
Just presence.
I tape the note to the fridge.
Not because I’ve forgiven him. But because I might.
Eventually.
That night, I finally call him.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I say, curling into the corner of my couch. “So, um, I got your package.”
“You didn’t throw it out?”
“Nope.”
“That’s progress.”
I sigh and contemplate my next move. “Murphy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m still angry.”
“I know.”
“But I liked the Zamboni.”
He laughs softly. “Thought you might.”
“I’m not moving in.”
“I figured.”
“But I’m not walking away either.”
The silence stretches, heavy with everything that doesn’t need to be said.
Then he exhales. “Okay. Then I’ll be here. As long as it takes.”
And somehow, that’s enough for now.
We talk for a while. About everything and nothing.
His upcoming games. My nightmare of a client.
How the internet seems obsessed with us now, even more so than when it was fake for his PR team.
He sounds lighter than he has in weeks, like he’s not waiting for me to fix him, just waiting for me to meet him halfway.
Maybe I will. Not today, but soon.
When we hang up, I don’t feel hollow. I feel anchored.
And that’s something.