Page 163 of Power Play
“You clean up alright,” I say, breezing past him into the flat that still smells faintly of new paint and his aftershave.
“You say that like you didn’t just check me out. Twice.”
“Three times,” I mutter.
He grins and leads me through to the balcony, where there’s a makeshift picnic set up; battery-powered candles, a blanket, and takeaway containers from my favourite Thai place.
“This is suspiciously well thought out.”
“Had help from Jacko. He said women like ambiance.”
“Jacko uses three-in-one shampoo and thinks romance is letting a girl wear his team hoodie.”
“And yet, here we are.”
We sit. We eat. We don’t talk about the past.
Instead, we talk about the absurdity of our teammates, the fact that Ollie tried to grill pancakes the other day, and how Dylan’s gone mysteriously soft since moving in with Mia.
And then we get quiet.
“I like this,” I say, watching the city lights.
“Me too.”
I glance over at him. “You still scared?”
“Terrified. You?”
“Always. But maybe that’s okay.”
He shifts so he’s facing me, legs crossed, expression open in a way that still makes my heart lurch.
“You don’t have to decide anything tonight,” he says softly. “Not about the flat. not about us. Just let this be enough for now.”
And somehow, it is.
When I finally stand to leave, I linger at the door, fingers wrapped around my empty coffee cup from earlier.
“This was a good idea.”
He smiles. “It was a great idea.”
I step out into the night air and glance back. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Never.”
But I can hear him grinning as he shuts the door.
And maybe next time I walk through it, I won’t be walking out again.
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.
