Page 138 of Power Play
And that’s the problem.
The next morning, I wake up early, groggy and wine-hazy, and check my phone like a woman possessed.
Another message.
Murphy: Hope today’s a bit brighter. Just in case it’s not, here’s Ollie slipping on the ice like a cartoon penguin. Thought you might need a laugh. X
There’s a video attached. I don’t open it. But I also don’t delete it. Again.
Why is he like this? Why is he still trying?
It would almost be easier if he weren’t. If he’d ghosted me, or acted defensive, or tried to shift the blame. But instead, he’s been consistent. Vulnerable. Somehow both annoying and sincere.
And the worst part is, I don’t think he’s performing. I think he means it. Every single stupid message.
By mid-afternoon, Mia texts again.
Mia:Ticket is still available. You can decide up to five minutes before puck drop. No pressure. Just alcohol. And possibly nachos.
I stare at the message as if it’s personally attacking me.
There’s a pair of jeans on the back of the chair I haven’t worn in a month, and I pull them on before I can talk myself out of it. Just totrythem. Just tosee.
They still fit. Of course they do.
Of course I’m going.
But I’m notgoing,going.
I’m just showing up. Observing. Gathering intel. Like a sexy, emotionally bruised spy.
I rummage through my wardrobe looking for a top to go with the jeans. It needs to be right. Nothing that screams I’ve tried too hard or that I’m trying to impress him. Because I am absolutely not.
Once I’m happy with my outfit choice, I slick on a little lipstick and perfect my trademark winged eyeliner. And then I grab my bag and head out the door before I have chance to talk myself out of this stupid idea.
The arena is packed. The crowd’s humming with the kind of anticipation that prickles along your skin. Mia meets me by the main entrance, grinning like she knew I’d cave.
“You look great,” she says.
“I look like a fool.”
“Same thing, honestly.”
She walks me to my seat, right by the players’ bench and the noise ratchets up as the team hits the ice. There’s a wave of cheers, horns and stomping feet. I feel like I’m vibrating out of my skin.
Then he appears.
Murphy.
Helmet on. Jersey stretched across broad shoulders. Visor slightly fogged. And for a second, I forget how to breathe.
He looks good. Ridiculously good. Like a walking billboard for heartbreak and second chances. I hate it.
I hate that my pulse stutters when he skates past. I hate that he doesn’t even know I’m here and I’m still reacting like a teenage fangirl.
But most of all, I hate that I can see the weight in his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, like he’s carrying the world and trying not to drop it.
“He’s been quieter,” Mia murmurs, almost like she can read my thoughts. “Still himself, but dialled down. Focused.”
