Page 26 of Power Play
Ihaveneverbeen more embarrassed and more smug at the same time in my life. The man’s an idiot. He threw me the puck like he was proposing marriage at centre ice. Like he was the hot jock in some ridiculous teen drama and I was the nerd with a makeover and trust issues.
Then heblew me a kiss. In front of the entire arena. Including a group of teenagers holding up signs that said “MARRY ME MURPHY,” who now hate me with the fire of a thousand suns. I’m going to need witness protection.
But as I leave the rink I can’t stop smiling. Which is annoying. Because this is fake. And if it isn’t? Well. That’s a whole other kind of problem.
By the time I knock on Mia and Dylan’s door that evening, the air between Murphy and me is back to normal. Chaotic, flirty and mildly offensive.
“Right, be cool,” Murphy says, nudging me as we wait. “Try not to embarrass yourself in front of the proper couple.”
I snort. “Says the man who made a scene like a promposal on ice.”
“I gave you a puck.”
“Youkissedit. Like it was Titanic and you were dying in the ocean.”
He grins. “You caught it though.”
“I played netball in school.”
“Did you now? Explains the aggression.”
Before I can fire back, the door swings open and Mia appears, barefoot, hair in a messy knot, wearing a hoodie I’m 90% sure is Dylan’s and a look that saysI already regret inviting you.
“Sophie,” she says, hugging me briefly. Then to Murphy, dry as sandpaper, “You can come in, I guess.”
“Always a pleasure, Clarke,” Murphy says, breezing past her as if he owns the place. “Still dating the broodiest man in the league?”
“I’m right here,” Dylan calls from the kitchen.
Murphy claps his hands. “Ohgood!I was worried you’d be smiling and ruin your whole brand.”
We end up in their living room, the four of us squished around a coffee table with a stack of battered playing cards and a takeaway that smells like heaven.
Mia’s curled up next to Dylan on the couch. Murphy and I are on the floor, sitting cross-legged, fighting over who gets to hold the chips. Currently, I’m winning.
“Right,” Murphy says, dealing out cards with the flair of someone who definitely cheated at GCSE Maths. “We playing honest poker or emotionally manipulative strip poker?”
Dylan stares at him. “Absolutely not.”
“Spoilsport.”
Mia raises an eyebrow at me. “You okay with this chaos?”
“Honestly?” I say, grinning. “It’s comforting. Like a migraine I chose.”
Murphy points at me. “See? That’s love.”
“It’s not,” I deadpan.
“Fake love,” Mia mutters under her breath, and I catch Dylan side-eyeing her as if to sayplease don’t start something, I’m tired.
Murphy throws an arm dramatically across my shoulders. “Fake or not, babe, I’d toss a puck at you ineveryarena.”
I look him dead in the eye. “If you ever do it again, I’ll set your hair gel on fire.”
“Fair.”
Mia groans. “Can you two stop flirting long enough to play a round?”
