Page 155 of Power Play
“But I liked the Zamboni.”
He laughs softly. “Thought you might.”
“I’m not moving in.”
“I figured.”
“But I’m not walking awayeither.”
The silence stretches, heavy with everything that doesn’t need to be said.
Then he exhales. “Okay. Then I’ll be here. As long as it takes.”
And somehow, that’s enough for now.
We talk for a while. About everything and nothing. His upcoming games. My nightmare of a client. How the internet seems obsessed with us now, even more so than when it was fake for his PR team. He sounds lighter than he has in weeks, like he’s not waiting for me to fix him, just waiting for me to meet him halfway.
Maybe I will. Not today, but soon.
When we hang up, I don’t feel hollow. I feel anchored.
And that’s something.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
MURPHY
Turns out when you publicly declare your love in a crowded arena during a live-streamed charity game and the girl you adore responds by knocking a tabloid leech onto her arse, people notice.
It’s been forty-eight hours, and I can’t scroll for more than five seconds without seeing some version of “Sophie Hart: Ice Queen, Literally” or “Hockey’s Hottest Couple?” with a dramatic thumbnail of us mid-high-five. Apparently, it’s the new universal sign for “we might be on speaking terms again.”
Twitter thinks we’re engaged. Instagram thinks we broke up again. TikTok has already made a mash-up edit of our “love story” soundtracked by three Taylor Swift songs and an Adele ballad for good measure.
Meanwhile, I’m just trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
Coach was right, what happened at the match was good for PR. The board’s thrilled. I’m suddenly being asked to do interviews I used to be ignored for. My face is on the homepage of the team site with the headline.
“Murphy’s Redemption: A Story of Second Chances”,
which makes me want to punch something and throw up, in that order.
Because this wasn’t supposed to be some soap opera revival tour.
I didn’t do it for the fans or the optics or the TikTok edits with our faces sparkled up like a Disney reboot. I did it because I needed her to know I meant it. And now that she’s heard it? That shesawit?
She still hasn’t totally forgiven me.
And you know what?
Fair game to her.
Because saying sorry out loud once, even with a microphone and dramatic lighting, doesn’t erase the silence that came before it. It doesn’t rewind all the moments I made her feel as if she had to handle it alone.
No grand gesture fixes that.
So now it’s Monday. No cameras. No crowd. Just me and the slow work of becoming someone better than the guy who fumbled everything he wanted.
I show up to morning skate early. Help the rookies stack pucks. Ask Coach if he needs anything set up. I shut up and do the drills. Focus on my passing, not the echo of Sophie’s laugh still looping in my brain like a song I can’t skip.
