Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
DYLAN
The Chinese takeaway box on my counter is still half-full, going cold.
I should eat. I should shower. I should do literally anything else but sit on the edge of my sofa, staring blankly at the muted TV screen while every cell in my body replays that almost-kiss in the treatment room like it’s the championship-winning goal on repeat.
We were right there.
If Danny hadn’t barged in, if I’d leaned in half a second sooner, if she hadn’t looked at me like she was ready to let it happen. But she didn’t. And I didn’t.
And now I’m stuck here with a stomach that feels like it’s chewing on itself and a head that won’t shut the hell up. The frustration is real.
The knock at the door startles me out of the loop. I ignore it at first, but then the knock comes again; louder this time, followed by the unmistakable thud-thud-clink of someone juggling a six-pack.
I drag myself up and open the door to find Murphy standing there like it’s a damn sitcom entrance. He’s grinning like the Chesire cat, with his hoodie slung low over his head, a bag of greasy takeaway in one hand and beer in the other.
“Jesus, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he says, pushing past me. “Or worse, your own feelings.”
“I didn’t invite you over,” I mutter, but I close the door anyway.
“Didn’t need an invite. I felt the disturbance in the force.” He plops down on the couch and starts unpacking boxes of chips and curry like he lives here. “You didn’t show up for pub night. Jacko’s convinced you’ve joined a cult.”
I sink into the armchair across from him, rubbing the back of my neck. “Maybe I have.”
Murphy cracks open a beer and tosses me one. “So, are you gonna tell me what’s got you brooding like Heathcliff on a bender, or do I have to guess?” He pops a handful of chips into his mouth and begins to chew.
I don’t answer. I take a long pull from the can and let the silence stretch. Murphy just watches me, waiting for me to spill my guts to him.
And because Murphy’s annoying like that; patient, perceptive, and insufferably persistent, I finally cave.
“I nearly kissed her.” He doesn’t need me to say who.
“Shit,” he says softly, then nods like that confirms something he already suspected. “In the treatment room?”
I look up. “You knew?”
“Mate, I saw you come out of there looking like you’d run a marathon through a minefield. You had that post-almost-sex-glow crossed with full-on existential panic. Wasn’t hard to connect the dots.”
I lean forward, elbows on knees, staring at the floor. “It wasn’t planned. I didn’t go in there hell bent on kissing her. I just wanted to check on her. She’d messaged me about having a rough morning, and I don’t know, I needed to see her face. Make sure she was okay.”
“And then you nearly snogged it off?”
I shoot him a warning look. But he just shrugs, unbothered by my silent threat.
“It wasn’t just a kiss,” I say, quieter. “It felt like more.”
Murphy doesn’t joke that time. He sets his food down and looks at me properly. “And that’s what’s got you like this.”
I nod.
“Because more is dangerous.” Man, he’s perceptive.
“Because more hurts.” The words come out before I can stop them, and suddenly I’m on my feet, pacing. The walls feel too close. Everything does.
“I’ve done casual,” I say, voice low, strained. “That’s easy. Fun. Forgettable. But Mia’s not…she’s not someone you forget. She’s someone who stays. And I don’t know if I can do that. If I can be that.”
Murphy leans back, sipping his beer. “Because of your dad.”
I freeze and the air in the room shifts.
“You think he didn’t want you,” Murphy says, not unkindly. “That he couldn’t handle your success because it reminded him of everything he didn’t get. And somewhere along the way, you started believing that you were the problem. That loving you came with conditions.”
My jaw tightens. “I didn’t ask for psychoanalysis.”
“Tough shit. Comes free with the beer.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “He’s never been to a game I’ve played in right from being six years old.
Not a single one. Then I got scouted, started winning trophies, and he was still ‘too busy.’ Wouldn’t talk to me after playoffs.
Didn’t show up when I got called to nationals. Just ignored every damn thing.”
Murphy doesn’t interrupt. He knows the rhythm of this part; when to speak, when to shut up.
“I kept thinking if I just played harder, did better he’d come around. Like maybe he just needed to see I was worth it. That I earned his pride.”
“And Mia’s wrapped up in that mess now too.”
I nod. “I look at her and I want everything. All at once. But I can’t shake this fear that I’ll screw it up. That I’ll want too much from her, or need too much. That she’ll wake up one day and realise I’m not worth the effort.”
Murphy is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “That’s not love, mate. That’s trauma.”
I snort, a bitter laugh catching in my throat. “Feels like both.”
“You ever think,” he says slowly, “that maybe the point isn’t to earn it this time? Maybe you don’t have to prove anything to her. Maybe she already sees you.”
I stare at him and Murphy shrugs. “Don’t look so shocked. I can be wise.”
“For like five seconds, yeah.”
He smirks. “Hey, that’s longer than most of your relationships.”
I toss a chip at him, and the moment softens a little. But the truth still weighs heavy on my chest. “I don’t know how to do this,” I admit, my voice rough.
He takes another sip of beer. “Then learn. Slowly. Carefully. No one’s asking you to solve it all in one night. Just don’t run from it. You like her?”
“Yeah. God, yeah.”
“Then show up. Even when it’s hard.”
We sit in silence after that, the TV flickering uselessly in the background, the takeaway growing colder between us.
Murphy eventually stands, stretching. “Right. I’ve done my good deed for the week. Gonna leave you to your brooding and your feelings and your tragic haircut.”
“It’s not tragic.” I run my hand through my unruly mass of hair.
“It’s definitely tragic.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Think about what I said.”
“I will.”
He hesitates in the doorway. “You’re not your dad, Dylan. You never were.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
When the door shuts behind him, I’m left alone again, but it feels less suffocating now.
I sit back down, pick up the takeaway, and finally eat something. My appetite’s still a mess, but I force the food down anyway.
Because tomorrow’s another day. Another chance.
And maybe I’m not as broken as I thought.