Page 139 of Power Play
“Focused how?”
“Like he’s playing for more than points.”
I chew my bottom lip.
The game kicks off and it’s chaos in the best way; fast, brutal, kinetic. Murphy takes a hit early but bounces back up, jaw clenched, eyes sharp. He doesn’t showboat. Doesn’t pander to the crowd. He just plays. Hard. Clean. As though he’s got something to prove and this is the only way he knows how.
I realise, somewhere around the second period, that I’m gripping the edge of my seat.
I also realise I’ve stopped pretending I don’t care.
And that’s terrifying.
After the game, I don’t go to the pub.
I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
But I leave knowing one thing for sure; this isn’t over. Not for me. Not for him. Not unless I say it is.
And the thing is, I’m not sure I want to.
Because despite everything, despite the anger and the pain and the way my heart still aches when I look at him, Imisshim.
Not just the Murphy who made me laugh until I cried. Not just the Murphy who kissed me slow and soft like I was his whole world. But the Murphy who always tried. Who never gave up. Who, even now, is still trying.
So maybe it’s time I stop pretending I don’t see it.
Maybe it’s time I let the door open just a crack.
Not enough to let him back in.
But enough to stop shutting him out completely.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
MURPHY
The minute I spot Sophie in the crowd, I lose my footing. Not physically, thank God, because Ollie would never let me live it down, but something inside me stutters, like a beat skipped in the middle of a song. One second, I’m flying across the ice with a stick in my hand and a game plan in my head, and the next I’m just a bloke in a helmet, staring at the woman he broke.
She’s here.
She came.
She’s wearing that leather jacket I used to take off her slowly. Sitting beside Mia with her arms folded as though she’s shielding herself from the inside out. But she’s here. And it doesn’t matter that she won’t look at me. Doesn’t matter that her face is locked in something halfway between passive and pissed off. She’shere.
And I play the best damn game I’ve had in months.
Not for the cameras. Not for the stats. Not even for the team.
For her.
Because every time I crash into the boards or dig the puck out of a corner, I imagine her watching. I imagine her seeing past the headlines and the photos and the noise. I imagine her remembering the Murphy whomeant it. Every word, every kiss, every stupid joke whispered into her neck.
After the final buzzer, I don’t go looking for her.
Not yet.
She came. That’s more than I had yesterday. And I’ll take it.
