Page 152 of Power Play
Apparently, that counts as romance now.
One TikTok even has the caption;“When your man apologises and your trauma says ‘prove it,’ so you do.”
Catchy. Possibly merchandisable.
I groan into my pillow and consider throwing my phone into the wall. Or the sea. Or both.
Instead, I do the mature thing; I call Mia.
She answers on the second ring with the energy of someone who’s already had two coffees and is ready to talk shit. “Sophie Hart. Local hero. Slayer of skanks. Defender of emotionally available hockey boys.”
I sigh. “Please stop.”
“Oh no,” she says, “I’m just getting started. You’ve gone full internet icon. There’s fan art. Someone painted you like Joan of Arc with a hockey stick instead of a sword.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Also? That high five?” she adds. “Better than most on-screen kisses. The tension. The timing. The pure uncut drama.”
I drag a hand down my face. “It was instinct. I didn’t go there to make a scene.”
“You went there to see if he meant it,” she says gently. “And then the scene just happened to you.”
“I think I gave someone a concussion.”
“She’ll survive,” Mia says cheerfully. “She’s got the emotionaldensity of a marshmallow and the resilience of a cockroach. She’ll bounce back in time to sell her story to whichever tabloid bids highest.”
I laugh. Then immediately wince, because my chest is tight again, and not from the humiliation.
From everything else.
“I don’t know what to do,” I say, quieter this time.
Mia pauses. “Talk to me.”
I pull the blanket tighter around me and sink into the couch, my legs curled underneath me, as though if I make myself small enough, the feelings will shrink too.
“He meant it,” I whisper. “Every word. I could see it in his face.”
“Yeah,” she says softly. “I could too.”
“And it wasn’t for show. Not really. Not this time.”
“No,” she agrees. “Not this time.”
“I wanted to hate him,” I admit. “I really, really did. After everything. After the lying and the avoidance and the damnflat…”
“You’re allowed to still be mad.”
“Iamstill mad.”
“Good,” she says. “Because if you’d watched him pour his soul out on centre ice and then immediately jumped back into his arms like a contestant onThe Bachelor, I’d have had to throw something at you.”
“I considered it,” I confess. “For half a second. Right after the speech and before I remembered I have a spine.”
She laughs again, but it fades quickly. “So where does that leave you?”
I stare at the ceiling like it has answers. “In emotional purgatory.”
