Chapter 74
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
MURPHY
The locker room smells like blood, sweat, and a whole lot of tension. It’s the Cup game, the final one of the season. If we win tonight, The Raptors clinch the top spot in the league for the third year in a row. No pressure, right?
I lace up my skates with practiced precision, blocking out the noise around me.
Jacko’s bouncing off the walls offering homemade fairy cakes to everyone, Ollie’s muttering pre-game mantras to himself, and Dylan’s got that look he gets when he’s about to punch someone just for breathing in his direction. Standard.
Me? I’m calm. Because there’s one variable I can’t predict tonight, and it has nothing to do with the guys on the ice.
I don’t know if Sophie’s going to show up.
She’s been texting me every day. Flirty, funny, thoughtful. We’ve been orbiting each other again after date night went well, we’re closer with every pass. But tonight feels like a turning point. Like the kind of night that could mark a before and after. And God, I want her there.
The horn sounds. Time to get out of my head.
The first period is carnage.
These bastards came to play dirty, and I match them hit for hit. One guy tries to elbow Jacko, and I slam him into the boards so hard it rattles his ancestors. The ref gives me a warning, but I don’t care. The Raptors are winning tonight. I’m not letting anyone steal this from us.
A puck comes flying at my face, and I deflect it with my stick by sheer instinct. It scrapes the edge of my helmet, but I don’t flinch. I’ve had worse. Hell, I’ve been worse.
Dylan scores just before the buzzer, and we hit the bench with a 1-0 lead. I’m gulping water, checking my gloves, trying not to scan the crowd.
But I do.
And then I see her.
Front row, in the corner where she always used to sit. Wrapped in one of my old Raptors hoodies, hair pulled up on top of her head with those wild blonde curls springing out, face fierce and proud like she never left.
My pulse spikes. Not from the game. Not from the adrenaline. From her.
She’s here.
Second period? Pure chaos.
They send in their enforcer, a guy built like a fridge with fists to match. He makes a run at Dylan and nearly succeeds until I intercept. Gloves off. Helmet off. We go at it right there on the ice.
He gets in a cheap shot to my ribs, but I return with a brutal uppercut that sends him sprawling. The crowd erupts. My lip is bleeding. My knuckles scream in protest. But I don’t feel it.
All I feel is the rush. The need to win. To be worthy. To prove to everyone, to her, that I’m still the guy she believed in.
We finish the period 3-1. And when I glance back at the stands, she’s still there.
Smiling.
Third period is survival.
Every shift is war. Every breath burns. I block a slapshot with my thigh and limp back to the bench. Coach barks at me to sit out the last two minutes, but I shake my head. Not tonight.
I skate back out. Take my position. We’re up 4-2, but it’s not over.
They pull their goalie in desperation. They know they’re on to a loser.
The puck flies wild. I intercept, sprinting down the ice with everything I’ve got left. One last goal to seal it.
I shoot.
It hits the net.
The horn blows.
5-2.
We did it.
The guys pile on, helmets flying, gloves tossed. Jacko tackles me to the ice, howling like a maniac. Ollie’s sobbing for some reason. Dylan just grins, blood on his teeth.
But all I can do is look for her.
And there she is. Waiting at the edge of the rink. Still in my hoodie. Still mine, even if neither of us has said it out loud.
Yet.
Hours later, after the noise and the beers and the boys chanting my name in the locker room, I drag myself home. Bruised. Exhausted. Riding the kind of high that only victory, and a glimpse of hope can give you.
I shower. Ice my ribs and try to sleep.
There’s a knock at the door and I open it to find her.
Two suitcases. One overstuffed tote bag. And a look in her eyes that floors me harder than any bodycheck ever could. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just lifts her chin, defiant and terrified and still somehow smirking.
“Told you I don’t travel light.”
I blink. Once. Twice.
“You sure?”
“Nope. But I’m here.”
I step aside and she walks in.
She drops the bags by the door like she’s done it a hundred times, and this is already her home. My chest aches with the sight of it. With her.
I close the door behind her, quietly, as though I’m afraid to jinx it.
She glances around. “Place looks cleaner than I expected. Did you hire a maid or just threaten Jacko with bleach?”
“I’m a changed man,” I say, stepping closer. “Didn’t you get the memo?”
“Oh, I got it. In triplicate. With follow-up texts and a Spotify playlist titled ‘Please Forgive Me and Also I’m Still Hot.’”
“Admit it, you liked the playlist.”
“The acoustic version of Sex on Fire was a choice.”
“Bold,” I say, grinning. “But effective?”
She hums like she’s thinking it over. But I can see it in her eyes, that soft, glinting thing that’s lived in them for months and is finally back, unguarded.
“I missed you,” I say. Simple. Honest.
She looks at me like she wants to bite me and cry at the same time. “I missed you too. And I hated every second of it.”
My hands find her hips automatically, like they remember the shape of her even if the rest of me still feels stunned that she’s really here. She’s warm, real, solid. And when she tips her head back to meet my eyes, it’s as if the ground steadies beneath me.
“I was scared you wouldn’t want me anymore,” she whispers.
I brush her hair back, my thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. “I never stopped wanting you. Not for a second.”
“Even when I was being a stubborn, emotionally constipated goblin?”
“Especially then.”
She smirks. “You’re a sick man.”
“You love it.”
She pulls my shirt, slowly, her fingers curling into the fabric like she needs to hold on to something.
“I love you,” she says, voice quiet, words clear. It knocks the breath out of me.
I kiss her.
Not the desperate kind of kiss we used to throw at each other between chaos and apology. This one’s slower. Like we finally understand what it means.
Her hands move up under my shirt, cool against my skin, and I suck in a breath when her nails drag lightly over my ribs.
She steps back and glances at the bags, then at me. “Bedroom still the same?”
“Better. New sheets. Less bachelor smell.”
“Oh, good,” she murmurs. “Because I plan to mess them up.”
She turns, grabbing her tote and sauntering down the hall like she owns the place. Like she owns me. And she does. Completely.
“Are you coming?” she calls over her shoulder.
“Not yet,” I mutter, following after her. “But give it five minutes.”
She laughs, it’s low, wicked, familiar, and I swear it’s the best sound I’ve ever heard.
By the time I reach the doorway, she’s already peeled off her hoodie, tossing it onto the bed like a gauntlet. The sight of her there, in this space that was never supposed to be mine alone, feels like coming home.
No dramatic declarations. No second-guessing.
Just her.
Just us.
And finally, finally, everything we didn’t say finds its way into the spaces between our mouths, our hands, our breath.
The cracks are still there.
But now, we’re sealing them shut together.