Page 6 of Power Play
Murphy: Gala, huh? You gonna show up and pretend we’re just “mates” while drinking champagne as if its holy water?
I don’t respond.
Murphy: I’ll be on my best behaviour. Probably. Maybe. 60/40 chance.
I hurl my phone into my drawer as though it’s radioactive. I can’t deal with him right now.
By Friday, I’ve pulled myself together. Mostly. I’ve blitzed my workload, flirted just enough with a barista to remind myself I can, and even deleted the hoodie from the drawer in a symbolic act of emotional exorcism. Fine. I moved it to the laundry hamper. It still counts.
So when Mia calls me mid-afternoon to confirm I’m still attending the gala, I say yes with the breezy confidence of someone who has no idea what they’re walking into.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks. “You’ve been… I don’t know. Weird.”
“I’m always weird,” I say, stuffing protein bars into my tote. “It’s part of my brand.”
“No,” she says slowly. “You’ve been weird in aMurphyway. Kind of distracted and annoyed but also blushy.”
“I don’t blush.”
“You blush. Murphy makes you blush.”
I groan. “Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”
“Because I have better instincts than you and you secretly love it when I’m right.”
She’s not wrong. But I hang up before she can say anything else annoying.
Saturday arrives like a freight train.
I get ready in front of my full-length mirror, trying to remember who I was before Murphy kissed me. Before I got tangled in this ridiculous knot of tension and banter and what-ifs.
The red dress fits like a secret. My lipstick matches and my heels are a threat to public safety. I’ve left my hair loose, it’s hanging in ringlets down my back, and for once, it’s behaving and I quite like it.
I look powerful. Controlled. Exactly how I need to be.
At least on the outside.
The venue is one of those rooftop hotels that embodies money and ambition. Everyone’s here, all of The Raptors players, sponsors, and a whole load media people. Mia is radiant in a stunning backless number with her hair swept into a low chignon. Dylan looks annoyingly dashing. I sweep in with a smile sharp enough to cut glass and zero plans for how to deal with the inevitable Murphy Encounter.
It takes all of ten minutes.
He appears like he always does, casually magnetic, in a tux that shouldn’t work on someone who once argued that ketchup is an acceptable pasta sauce.
“Sophie.” He smiles, hands in his pockets, hair artfully messy. “You clean up okay.”
“You showed up in a suit andstillmanaged to look like trouble,” I shoot back.
He steps closer. “You avoiding me again?”
“I’m right here.”
“But your eyes keep skipping past me as if I’m a maths problem you don’t want to solve.”
“That’s because I’ve already solved you, Murphy. You’re chaos divided by charm, multiplied by poor impulse control.”
He laughs and its low and delightful.
Then he says, “So what’s the verdict? We pretending none of it happened?”
