Page 11 of Power Play
MURPHY
There’s nothing quite like the emotional whiplash of going from Sophie Hart’s hand brushing mine to watching her face shutter as though I’ve personally insulted her gran.
Which I didn’t. For the record.
I didn’t evenlookat Tabloid Girl until she inserted herself into our airspace like a drunken wasp with lip filler. And now? Now I’m lying on my back in the middle of the rink during drills, breathing hard, staring up at the roof as if maybe the answers are written there in the condensation.
“Are you dead?” Ollie leans over me, stick tapping my shinpad. “You look dead.”
“Maybe I’m soul-dead,” I mutter.
Then Jacko, team enforcer, skates by, laughing. “You’re always soul-dead. Get up, you drama queen.”
I groan and roll to my side, hauling myself upright just in time for Coach to bark, “Murphy! You awake yet or should we call a medic?”
“I’m conscious. Just dramatically brooding,” I call back. A few chuckles ripple through the team, but even I can hear the edge in my voice. Not my usual sparkle. Not today.
Not after Sophie looked at me like she regretted everything.
I’ve been off all morning. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop replaying that moment where everything was clicking, her laugh, the heat, her eyes on mine, and thenbam. Wrecking ball in lip gloss ruins it all.
And the worst part? Sophie didn’t evensayanything. She didn’t need to. The wall she put up said it for her.
“Oi.” Dylan skates up beside me as we head to the bench forwater. “You want to tell me why you’re playing like a hungover pigeon today?”
“No,” I reply simply, gulping water.
“Does this have anything to do with your little sparkly moment at the gala?” he asks, voice low.
“Don’t say sparkly. I’ll hit you.”
“Please do. At least then you’ll be using your arms for something useful today.”
I give him a look, but it doesn’t have its usual bite. “It was going well. For once. And then it wasn’t.”
Dylan doesn’t need the details. He saw Sophie retreat like I’d slapped her with a wet fish. He saw the smile fall off my face. He saw everything.
“You going to talk to her?” he asks.
I hesitate. “Dunno. She looked at me as if I was everything she hates about men in one tight suit.”
“Well. Youareeverything she hates about men.”
“Thanks, mate. Real ego boost.”
“I meant it with love.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Just don’t let her spiral alone. She’s good at it. I’d know.”
I don’t answer. Because I already know Sophie’s spiralling. She does it with precision. The problem is, I don’t know if shewantsme pulling her out of it.
We’re back on the ice for shooting drills and I absolutely blast my first shot off the post so hard it echoes like a gunshot. Mike, the goalie, actually flinches.
“Easy, Van Gogh,” he grumbles. “You trying to decapitate me or paint the boards in my blood?”
“Sorry,” I say. “Pent-up feelings.”
“Ah. A Sophie Situation?”
“Is it that obvious?”
