Page 134 of Power Play
“Sure you did.”
There’s no malice in it. Only honest truth. And I need that now more than ever.
As the rest of the table settles back in with another round of drinks and a plate of Jacko’s weirdly good brownies, I sit back, watching them all laugh, chirp, tease. It hits me how much these people have become home.
And how empty it feels without her.
But maybe this is what growing up actually looks like. Not some romcom monologue in the rain. Just quiet, steady work. Humility. Earning your way back into someone’s heart instead of demanding it.
And that’s what I’m going to do.
No shortcuts. No spin.
Just me, putting the pieces back together, one by one.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
MURPHY
There’s this moment, right after I open my eyes, where I forget everything. Just for a second. No weight pressing down on my chest. No ache. No guilt. It’s just quiet. Peaceful, even.
Then I see the bin bag of my stuff in the corner of the room and it all comes rushing back. Like a punch to the throat.
I roll out of bed, sit on the edge of the mattress with my elbows on my knees and stare at the floor as if it’s going to offer some divine guidance. It doesn’t. Just dust and my old trainers.
It’s been almost two weeks since she slammed the door on my heart and told me she couldn’t do this anymore. Since she saw those photos. Since she looked at me like I was nothing.
I’ve sent her a message every day. A voice note. Something. Just to let her know I haven’t disappeared. That I’m not hiding.
She hasn’t responded once. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t text me back either.
I drag on my hoodie, swipe up my phone, and scroll through the drafts I’ve typed and deleted again and again. All the things I want to say but haven’t. Because none of it feels big enough. None of it feels like it’ll make a dent in the wall she’s put up between us.
I need to do something. Something real.
Not grovel. Not beg.
Prove.
That’s the word that keeps circling like a vulture. Prove it.
I just don’t know how. Not yet.
But I will.
It’s another bruiser of a training session. Coach is on a warpath, and Jonno’s got us doing suicides until my lungs feel like they’re full of lighter fluid. The whole team’s gasping like fish out of water, sweat flying off our faces as we sprint, stop, sprint again.
“Keep going! This isn’t a daycare!” Coach barks, whistle slicing through the air like a guillotine.
Next to me, Ollie nearly trips on a cone. “Mate,” he wheezes, “my legs are having an out-of-body experience.”
“I think I saw my soul leave through my sweat glands,” Jacko mutters, red-faced and staggering.
“Good,” Jonno shouts. “That means you’re almost working hard enough.”
We run until the rink feels as though it’s tilting, until the lines blur and everything hurts.
By the end, I can barely lift my arms to peel my gear off in the locker room. My shoulders scream in protest, my knees are jelly, and my stomach is growling.
