Page 158 of Power Play
I take a breath, the kind that scrapes a little on the way out, and knock.
There’s a long pause. Then the door creaks open, and there he is.
Murphy.
Hair damp. Hoodie half-zipped over his practice kit. Eyes wide and sleep-warm and very much not expecting me.
“Hi,” I say, because apparently, I’ve forgotten how to human.
He blinks. Then blinks again. “You brought snacks.”
I hold up the bag. “I figured if I was going to emotionally ambush you, I should at least show up bearing carbs.”
His mouth tugs into a slow, cautious smile. “Is this a friendly ambush? Or a murdery one?”
“Depends on how bad your coffee tastes. I got you that pretentious oat milk latte you pretend is good.”
He takes the bag from me like it might detonate. “You came early.”
“I didn’t sleep.” I shrug. “And I figured if I was going to have a small crisis about my feelings, I might as well do it near ice.”
Murphy shifts so I can step inside, and I follow him into the dimly lit corridor.
We find a bench in the side hall near the locker rooms, and he sits. I sit beside him. Close, but not touching. Safe distance. Still a buffer of air and doubt between us.
He unwraps a croissant, tears off a bite, and chews in silence. Then he asks, “So what’s this?”
“I don’t know.” I twist the coffee lid off mine and take a sip. “A peace offering? A truce? A weird breakfast date in a hockey cave?”
Murphy chuckles. “All very on-brand for us.”
There’s a long pause, filled only by pastry flaking and coffeesipping. My fingers feel too tight around the cup. My heart’s thudding like it wants out.
Finally, I say it.
“I forgave you.”
He freezes. Not dramatically. But like he’s making sure he heard it right.
“For the photos,” I clarify. “For not telling me. For breaking the part of me that thought we were untouchable.”
He sets his coffee down carefully. “Sophie,”
“I’m not saying I’ve forgotten it. Or that everything’s magically fixed. But I don’t feel like hating you anymore. That’s a start, right?”
“It’s everything.” he says, voice low.
I look over at him. He’s not the Murphy I met months ago. The one with the easy grin and glittered arrogance. He’s still him, but quieter now. More grounded. Almost as though he’s been reforged in fire and found a new shape.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I admit. “How much I loved you. How fast it all cracked.”
“Me too,” he says. “And I swear, I’ll spend every day proving I’m not that guy anymore. Not to win you back, but because I never want to be the man who hurts you again.”
And that lands harder than any grand speech ever could.
No theatrics. No spotlight. Only Murphy. Raw and real and steady.
I glance down at my shoes. “So, if I wanted to maybe not be angry anymore, and maybe wanted to be near you more than I want to hold a grudge, you’d be okay with that?”
