Chapter 71
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
SOPHIE
It starts with a text from Mia.
Mia: Tell him before you combust. Or I will. With interpretive dance.
And honestly, that’s what tips me over.
Not the thousand TikTok’s of Murphy’s “I love you, don’t fuck it up” speech.
Not the photos of me mid-slap, arm cocked as if I’m avenging a fallen nation.
Not the memes of Murphy looking as though he’s about to sob into a glitter cannon.
No, it’s Mia threatening modern dance.
So here I am, stupid early on a Tuesday morning, standing outside a mostly empty rink with two takeaway coffees in one hand and a greasy paper bag full of pastries in the other. Like a rom-com extra who doesn’t know she’s in the wrong genre.
My breath fogs in the cold. I haven’t done this kind of gesture in a long time. And definitely not for someone who’s hurt me.
But something’s changed.
Or maybe it’s me who changed.
Because for the first time in weeks, I’m not angry. Not even a little. I’m tired, sure. Guarded, absolutely. But the bone-deep fury I clung to like armour? It’s gone. Leaked out of me somewhere between Murphy’s cracked voice on the ice and his quiet steadiness since.
He hasn’t asked for anything. No pressure. No more speeches. Just patience. Kindness. The occasional stupid meme sent at two in the morning with no caption but perfect timing.
And maybe that’s how I know he means it this time. Because he’s not trying to bulldoze his way back into my life. He’s leaving the door open and waiting.
I pull my hoodie tighter around me and edge toward the side entrance of the rink. The one Mia told me he sneaks in through before morning practice to avoid media vultures.
This could be stupid. He might not even be here yet.
Or worse, he might be here and not want me here. Not after I made him wait so long.
I take a breath, the kind that scrapes a little on the way out, and knock.
There’s a long pause. Then the door creaks open, and there he is.
Murphy.
Hair damp. Hoodie half-zipped over his practice kit. Eyes wide and sleep-warm and very much not expecting me.
“Hi,” I say, because apparently, I’ve forgotten how to human.
He blinks. Then blinks again. “You brought snacks.”
I hold up the bag. “I figured if I was going to emotionally ambush you, I should at least show up bearing carbs.”
His mouth tugs into a slow, cautious smile. “Is this a friendly ambush? Or a murdery one?”
“Depends on how bad your coffee tastes. I got you that pretentious oat milk latte you pretend is good.”
He takes the bag from me like it might detonate. “You came early.”
“I didn’t sleep.” I shrug. “And I figured if I was going to have a small crisis about my feelings, I might as well do it near ice.”
Murphy shifts so I can step inside, and I follow him into the dimly lit corridor.
We find a bench in the side hall near the locker rooms, and he sits. I sit beside him. Close, but not touching. Safe distance. Still a buffer of air and doubt between us.
He unwraps a croissant, tears off a bite, and chews in silence. Then he asks, “So what’s this?”
“I don’t know.” I twist the coffee lid off mine and take a sip. “A peace offering? A truce? A weird breakfast date in a hockey cave?”
Murphy chuckles. “All very on-brand for us.”
There’s a long pause, filled only by pastry flaking and coffee sipping. My fingers feel too tight around the cup. My heart’s thudding like it wants out.
Finally, I say it.
“I forgave you.”
He freezes. Not dramatically. But like he’s making sure he heard it right.
“For the photos,” I clarify. “For not telling me. For breaking the part of me that thought we were untouchable.”
He sets his coffee down carefully. “Sophie,”
“I’m not saying I’ve forgotten it. Or that everything’s magically fixed. But I don’t feel like hating you anymore. That’s a start, right?”
“It’s everything.” he says, voice low.
I look over at him. He’s not the Murphy I met months ago. The one with the easy grin and glittered arrogance. He’s still him, but quieter now. More grounded. Almost as though he’s been reforged in fire and found a new shape.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I admit. “How much I loved you. How fast it all cracked.”
“Me too,” he says. “And I swear, I’ll spend every day proving I’m not that guy anymore. Not to win you back, but because I never want to be the man who hurts you again.”
And that lands harder than any grand speech ever could.
No theatrics. No spotlight. Only Murphy. Raw and real and steady.
I glance down at my shoes. “So, if I wanted to maybe not be angry anymore, and maybe wanted to be near you more than I want to hold a grudge, you’d be okay with that?”
He nudges his knee into mine. “Sophie, you could show up every day just to glare at me from the stands and I’d be okay with it.”
I smirk. “Tempting.”
He grins. “You always were an excellent glarer.”
“I’ve been practicing. In mirrors. Very dramatic.”
His laugh cracks through the tension.
We fall quiet again, but this time it’s comfortable.
I sip my coffee and steal a bite of his pastry. He pretends to protest but doesn’t pull it away.
When I finally speak again, it’s softer.
“I’m not ready to move in to the new flat yet. Or call this a full-on second chance. But I want to try. Slowly. No fireworks.”
“No glitter?” he asks, mock-offended.
I level him with a look. “You get one more glitter incident and I’m sending you to therapy.”
“I already go to therapy,” he says smugly. “My therapist says I’m a delight.”
I snort. “She’s clearly paid off.”
“I pay her with honesty and charm.”
“And lies. Definitely lies.”
He laughs again, and I feel something in my chest unlock. A tiny click. The sound of walls shifting.
We finish the pastries. The hallway brightens as the morning staff flick on lights. Somewhere deeper in the rink, doors bang open and footsteps echo.
But for a few more minutes, it’s just us. Sitting on a bench, eating lukewarm croissants like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. And maybe, in its own weird way, it is. Because for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m not bracing for impact.
I’m leaning in.
Not to forget the pain, but to choose something better after it.
Murphy walks me out to my car, fingers brushing mine but never pushing. He opens the door as though it’s not a big deal, and we’ve always done this.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m sure I want to be.”
“That’s enough for me.”
I get in, turn the key, and glance at him through the open window.
“Oh, and Murphy?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t fuck it up again.”
He grins like it’s the best threat he’s ever heard.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Hart.”
I drive away with a heart that feels a little fuller.
And yeah, maybe love doesn’t look the way I thought it would. Maybe it’s not grand gestures and perfect timing and glitter explosions.
Maybe it’s coffee in a cold rink. A bench in a hallway. A man who learned how to be quiet enough to hear me.