Page 129 of Power Play
“Theyaretiny hats. For yourtongue,” Jacko replies, utterly serious.
Everyone laughs, and for a second, the weight on my chest lifts enough to allow me to breathe.
Later, after most of the team has filtered out and the crowd’s thinned to background hum, I find myself alone with Dylan again. We’re leaning on the edge of the bar, beers almost warm, talking low.
“You ever think maybe we don’t deserve forgiveness?” I ask.
He’s quiet for a second. Then, “All the time.”
I glance over.
“But,” he says, “that’s not the point. It’s not about deserving it. It’s about whether the person you hurt thinks you’re worth the risk again.”
“And what if she doesn’t?”
He shrugs. “Then you hurt. And you live with it. And eventually, you keep going. But don’t give up until you know for sure.”
I nod, trying not to let it show how much that hits me.
“Thanks, man.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “Anytime.”
I walk home later than I should, my legs still aching from the morning suicides, my head heavier than my heart wants it to be.
But something in me feels steadier. And maybe I can do this. Notfix it all at once, but start. Build something that lasts. Even if it takes a while.
Even if it’s one stupid voice note at a time.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
SOPHIE
There should be a badge for surviving a full work week without throttling anyone.
Especially one where your inbox is a dumpster fire, your boss has asked you three times if you’re “okay” in that tone that suggests you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge, and your ex-boyfriend, who may or may not have cheated on you, has sent you a text every morning like some sort of sad motivational calendar.
Today’s was;
Murphy: Hope you’re doing okay. Still thinking about you.
Every day it’s a variation on a theme. I haven’t listened to any of the voice notes either. I can’t. Because I’m afraid if I do, I might hear something real in his voice. Something raw. Something that’ll mess with the steel cage I’ve carefully built around my ribs.
“Earth to Sophie.” Mia waves a hand in front of my face, smirking over the top of her wine glass. “Are we boring you already, or are you mentally assassinating your coworkers one by one?”
“Both,” I deadpan, taking a sip of my own wine. “It’s called multitasking. You wouldn’t understand.”
We’re at my flat, surrounded by takeaway containers, a mountain of Pringles, and the kind of ambient fairy lights that make it look like I’ve got my life together when really, I haven’t folded laundry in two weeks and my fridge contains nothing but almond milk and three sad grapes.
Girls’ night. My idea. Mostly because I needed the distraction.And Mia’s good at that. She doesn’t try to therapize me, she just shows up with wine and snacks and an endless stream of hockey-related drama that makes me forget, for a second, that my personal life is a bin fire.
“Speaking of murder,” Mia says, sliding her legs up onto the couch, “Jonno nearly killed the entire team in training today. Suicides, battle drills, sleds. Dylan was limping by the end of it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that hockey speak for ‘please feel sorry for us because we had to run around for an hour while being paid stupid amounts of money to play a game’?”
She rolls her eyes. “Trust me, they earned their pints tonight. Ollie nearly threw up. Jacko did throw up.”
“Probably all the baking he’s been stress-eating,” I mutter, picking a Malteser off the table. “Is he still watching that Great British Bake-Off knockoff with the creepy host?”
