Page 110 of Power Play
Another hour passes. By the time I finally escape to the balcony for air, I’m done.
The city stretches out below, lights winking like scattered stars. I pull out my phone again.
Murphy: I deserve a medal. Or at least a naked girlfriend when I get home.
Sophie: Brave little soldier. I’ll run you a bath and sit on the edge looking scandalous. Fair?
Murphy: I love you more than tiny desserts and overpriced champagne.
Sophie: That’s true romance.
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. She grounds me. Makes this whole pretence bearable. Even though she’s not here, I feel her with me, in my messages, in the scent of her on my skin, in the promise of later.
And that’s the real win of the night.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
SOPHIE
There’s something indecently glorious about sleeping in on your day off. I’m sprawled like a starfish in my duvet cocoon, drooling on my pillow, phone tossed somewhere under the bed because I decided last night I was above being a screen-addicted gremlin. I’ve made it, fully offline, domestically blissful, safe in the gentle hangover of a long lie-in and a cup of builder’s tea brewing in the kitchen.
So when the doorbell rings at 10:42 a.m. with the urgency of a tax inspection, I figure someone’s died.
It’s Mia.
And she’s holding her phone as if it’s radioactive.
“Morning…” I say cautiously, still in my pyjamas and last night’s smudged eyeliner. “You look like you’ve either murdered someone or you’re about to.”
She doesn’t answer right away, just brushes past me into the flat as though she’s been rehearsing this moment since dawn. That’s the first sign that something’s off. Mia’s never pushy. Not unless it’s an emergency.
The second sign is the way she holds her phone out to me, screen facing up.
“Have you seen this?”
It takes a second for my sleepy eyes to focus.
And then I do.
It’s Murphy. In a tux. At the gala. Looking like sin in dress shoes. And next to him, practically glued to his side, is her.
Tabloid Girl. The one he once said was “just noise.”
She’s leaning in, whispering something into his ear, hand curled around his bicep as though she’s measuring it for purchase. Inanother photo, she’s laughing at something he’s said. In the last, they’re framed against the glittering lights of the gala, her body language screaming intimacy while he gazes somewhere out of frame, expression unreadable.
The headline reads:
“Star Player Back On The Market? Samuel Murphy Spotted Getting Cozy With Notorious Reporter.”
I blink.
Then blink again.
But the pictures don’t change.
“Wait, what is this?” My voice sounds far away. “This isn’t real. This is just some weird out-of-context thing, right? Like she posed and he didn’t notice, or…”
“There are five different photo sets,” Mia says gently. “And some video clips on Instagram stories. They’re trending on the hockey fan forums. I thought you should see it before… you saw it.”
