Chapter 70
CHAPTER SEVENTY
MURPHY
Turns out when you publicly declare your love in a crowded arena during a live-streamed charity game and the girl you adore responds by knocking a tabloid leech onto her arse, people notice.
It’s been forty-eight hours, and I can’t scroll for more than five seconds without seeing some version of “Sophie Hart: Ice Queen, Literally” or “Hockey’s Hottest Couple?
” with a dramatic thumbnail of us mid-high-five.
Apparently, it’s the new universal sign for “we might be on speaking terms again.”
Twitter thinks we’re engaged. Instagram thinks we broke up again. TikTok has already made a mash-up edit of our “love story” soundtracked by three Taylor Swift songs and an Adele ballad for good measure.
Meanwhile, I’m just trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Coach was right, what happened at the match was good for PR. The board’s thrilled. I’m suddenly being asked to do interviews I used to be ignored for. My face is on the homepage of the team site with the headline.
“Murphy’s Redemption: A Story of Second Chances”,
which makes me want to punch something and throw up, in that order.
Because this wasn’t supposed to be some soap opera revival tour.
I didn’t do it for the fans or the optics or the TikTok edits with our faces sparkled up like a Disney reboot. I did it because I needed her to know I meant it. And now that she’s heard it? That she saw it?
She still hasn’t totally forgiven me.
And you know what?
Fair game to her.
Because saying sorry out loud once, even with a microphone and dramatic lighting, doesn’t erase the silence that came before it. It doesn’t rewind all the moments I made her feel as if she had to handle it alone.
No grand gesture fixes that.
So now it’s Monday. No cameras. No crowd. Just me and the slow work of becoming someone better than the guy who fumbled everything he wanted.
I show up to morning skate early. Help the rookies stack pucks. Ask Coach if he needs anything set up. I shut up and do the drills. Focus on my passing, not the echo of Sophie’s laugh still looping in my brain like a song I can’t skip.
“You’re being suspiciously well-behaved,” Ollie says, skating up next to me. “No declarations of love? No public meltdowns? Are you dying?”
“I’m evolving,” I mutter, flicking a puck toward the boards.
“Gross. Like a Pokémon?”
“More like a guilt-ridden human trying not to screw things up a second time.”
He grins and slaps me on the helmet. “Proud of you, mate. Sophie’s scary when she’s pissed.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“She’s also terrifying when she’s in love, though,” Ollie adds, a little more thoughtfully. “Don’t take it for granted.”
“Wasn’t planning to.”
The locker room feels different now. Nobody’s tiptoeing around me.
Jacko gives me a nod on the way in. Dylan claps me on the back and mutters, “About damn time,” before walking off.
And Mia, well, Mia texts Sophie every time I so much as sneeze, so I don’t expect a personal update.
But she gives me a thumbs-up during warmups and I’ll take it.
The biggest change, though?
I’m not trying to fix everything in one go anymore.
Because this time, I’m not building toward some final act. I’m showing up for the quiet stuff. The unglamorous parts. The things Sophie always had to do alone, until now.
On Tuesday, I help Jacko move a couch even though it nearly takes my spine out.
On Wednesday, I take Ollie’s dog to the vet because he’s double-booked and “you owe me for being your sign holding bitch.” On Thursday, I send Sophie a text, not asking to see her, not begging for anything. Just a quiet I’m here text.
Murphy: If you’re still craving that lemon loaf from Marlowe’s, I left a slice on your doorstep. Still warm. Don’t ask how I bribed the barista. Just enjoy.
She doesn’t respond.
But Friday night, she shows up to watch practice.
Doesn’t say anything, just sits in the stands, bundled in a hoodie that might’ve once lived in my drawer. My heart jumps like it wants to sprint across the ice and full-body hug her, but I stay where I am. Do my drills. Listen to Coach. Play my game.
That night, I get a text.
Sophie: The loaf was good. You still don’t deserve any, but good call.
Progress.
On Saturday, we see each other in person. Not planned.
I’m loading groceries into my car when she walks up next to me, grocery bags in hand, with a cautious smile. “Look at you,” she says, “a man who owns bananas and humility.”
“Trying something new,” I say, squinting into the sun. “You want a ride?”
She hesitates. “Sure.”
It’s a short drive to hers. No music. Just the hum of the engine and the smell of citrus from the paper bag between us. I park, and she lingers in the passenger seat like she’s not quite ready to leave.
“I didn’t come to that match because I was ready,” she says quietly. “I came because I couldn’t not.”
“I get it.”
“And I didn’t expect the speech. Or the crowd. Or the glitter.”
I wince. “Too much?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Weirdly, no. But I need more than big moments, Murph.”
“I know.”
“I need to know you’re the guy who shows up when there’s nothing dramatic going on. When it’s boring and messy and I’ve had a bad day and need someone to remind me not to set my emails on fire.”
“I want to be that guy.”
“Then be him.”
I nod.
She gets out of the car but leans back in before closing the door. “Thanks for the loaf. And the ride. And…” Her eyes meet mine. “For not rushing this.”
“I’m in no rush,” I say. “I’ll wait.”
She closes the door gently. No kiss. No promises. Just a look that says maybe. A soft maybe that feels more real than any yes ever has.
And that’s when I know.
This, what we’re doing now, isn’t about winning.
It’s about choosing each other, every day, without the scoreboard.