Page 66 of Power Play
“Again!” Coach bellows, blowing his whistle as if it owes him money.
Ollie groans beside me, his stick dragging across the ice. “What did we do to deserve this?”
“Exist,” I mutter, pushing off for another sprint, legs moving on autopilot.
It’s chaos. Beautiful, punishing chaos. The kind of session that makes you question why you ever fell in love with hockey. Why your joints feel eighty years old by the end of it. But these days, it’s not just the game that’s got my heart running laps. It’s the fact someone like Sophie’s waiting on the other end of this grind.
I love it.
Hate it.
Love it again.
Dylan’s laser-focused, shoulders stiff, skating as though he’s trying to outrun something that’s clinging to his back.
Jacko, on the other hand, won’t shut up. He chirps every chance he gets, trying to keep morale up like it’s his second job.
“You look like you’re skating through soup, Murph,” he calls as I power through drills. “That posh date got you soft already?”
“Not soft, mate,” I shoot back, panting. “Just conserving energy for when you start crying halfway through suicides.”
The guys laugh. Even Coach lets out a grudging snort.
Jacko grins, helmet slightly askew. “You and Sophie looked very coupley last night. I saw the pics online. ‘Murphy’s mystery girl is a stunner’, that was the headline. Can’t believe you pulled her.”
“She’s got a concussion, obviously,” I say, deadpan.
Jacko presses a hand to his chest in a mock swoon. “Imagine getting injured and waking up thinking Murphy’s a catch.”
“Mate, you’re just bitter because I don’t bring you pastries like Sophie brings me coffee.”
That gets a loud “Oooooh!” from the guys. Jacko throws a glove at me.
“That was lemon drizzle, thank you very much.”
“Oh, weknowit was lemon drizzle,” I grin. “You told us eight times. You offered it to Coach like you were trying to get adopted.”
“I bake under stress!” Jacko defends. “It’s that or punch someone in the face. The lemon drizzle is foryour safety.”
Coach finally cuts the drill and gives us a water break. I collapse onto the bench, dragging off my helmet and letting the cold air hit my face.
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I check it, expecting a text from Sophie.
It’s not, it’s a call from my agent, Layla.
Shit.
I hesitate before answering. “Yo, Murph.”
“Samuel,” she says sharply, all clipped vowels and businesslike precision. I sit up straighter on instinct. “Photos from last night areeverywhere. Brilliant work.”
“Oh. Uh, thanks?”
“We’ve had four sponsorship inquiries in the last hour,” she continues, already in full PR mode. “The energy drink brand wants to renew. A local healthy-eating chain is interested, ironic, but we’ll take it. And the outdoor gear brand wants a full winter campaign. With you and Sophie. Together.”
My throat goes dry. “They want both of us?”
“You’re a hit. The wholesome angle is playing like a dream,” Layla says breezily. “Low-stakes romance meets bad-boy redemption arc. Exactly what we needed to reframe your brand.”
