Page 77 of Power Play
We don’t say much after that.
Because we don’t need to.
And because I’m already planning what kind of breakfast he’s making me in the morning.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MURPHY
Mia’s not impressed. She’s got that eyebrow raise thing going on, one that could stop a runaway Zamboni in its tracks, as she straps the ice pack tighter around my ankle. I wince dramatically.
“Big baby,” she mutters.
“Says the woman trying to amputate my foot with a frozen pack of doom.”
“You’re lucky it’s just a sprain,” she says, then jabs a finger at me. “And you’re on rest this week. No training, no gym, no skating. Got it?”
I groan. Loudly. As though I’ve just been told my dog died and my favourite takeaway closed down in the same breath.
“Mia…” I drag her name out like a kid begging for more TV. “I’m already bored, I can feel it creeping up my spine.”
“Nope. Don’t even start. Rest.”
She packs up her supplies and walks off as if she’s got a vendetta against fun. I sit there sulking, my ankle propped on the treatment table, strapped up tighter than a Christmas present you’re desperate to get into, like it personally betrayed me.
What the hell am I supposed to do with a week off? Rest? Reflect?
Or...
Sophie.
She’s probably at work right now, tapping away at her keyboard with her quirky little concentration face and chewing the lid of a biro. I grin. Yeah, that’s where I’m going.
Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling up outside the hospital in my very clean, very shiny car, with a suspiciously fancy picnic basket inthe passenger seat. I may or may not have bribed a local deli. What can I say? They love me in there.
Sophie meets me in the staff garden, her eyes narrowing immediately. “Is that brie?”
I nod, smug. “Sure is. Triple cream. Imported. Practically sinful.”
Her face lights up like I’ve just proposed. “God, I love cheese more than I love most of my relatives.”
We settle on a bench under one of the trees, it’s the kind of day that makes you believe the universe isn’t totally messed up. She kicks off her shoes and curls her legs beneath her, stealing olives from my side of the blanket without shame.
“So,” she says around a mouthful of cracker, “do I get to ask why you’re loitering in a hospital garden like a charming stalker?”
I pat my ankle with mock solemnity. “Banned from the rink. Apparently, skating on a balloon-foot is frowned upon according to our lovely Mia.”
She frowns. “Wait, you’re actually following medical advice? Are you okay? Should I call someone?”
“Laugh it up, Hart. I’m a changed man.”
She snorts. “You’re a bored man. With snacks.”
I grin. “Correct. And a proposition.”
She arches a brow, chewing slowly. “If it’s sexual and involves stilton, I’m out.”
“Rude. But no, I’m talking about this.” She watches as I pull a folded flyer from my hoodie pocket and hand it to her.
