Page 29 of Power Play
He glances at me. “Yeah.”
“That didn’t feel like a joke to you?”
He exhales slowly. “Parts of it did.”
“And the rest?” He doesn’t answer. Just unlocks my car door for me, then leans against the frame as if he’s trying to decide what we are again.
Fake. Fun. Comfortable. Dangerous.
“Goodnight, Sophie.”
I smile. “Goodnight, Murphy.”
He doesn’t kiss me and I don’t ask him to. But he walks back to his car like he’s thinking about it.
And that’s somehow worse.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
MURPHY
Ican’t stop thinking about the way she looked at me last night. Not when I tossed the puck, though that was hilarious, but later, outside her car. When the noise had died down and we were standing there in the quiet, trading sarcasm like usual, except something in the air felt different. Charged.
And then I didn’t kiss her.
Which was probably for the best. Right?
Except now I’m pacing outside a sleek office building in the city, trying to remember if I brushed my hair this morning. I’m wearing the good version of casual; dark jeans, button-up shirt, boots that don’t have pub stains on them. My agent, Layla, asked me to pop in for a meeting. Casual, she said. Just a quick catch-up.
I hate casual meetings. They always feel like ambushes.
Inside, the receptionist smiles like I’m famous, which is flattering considering the only people who usually recognise me are ten-year-olds in replica jerseys and the occasional drunk dad at Tesco.
“Murphy! Great to see you,” Layla beams as she opens the meeting room door. “Come in, come in. We’ve got coffee. And something better.”
“Better than coffee? Bold.”
She laughs and gestures for me to sit. I flop into the chair as if I belong there, though I immediately regret it when I sink too low and have to do that awkward shuffle to sit upright again.
She slides her tablet across the table. “Take a look.”
On the screen are half a dozen blurry-but-totally-clear-enough photos of me and Sophie in the bar after last week’s game. One is of me whispering something into her ear. Another ofher laughing with her hand on my chest. A third shows me grinning down at her like a proper idiot.
“Wow,” I say.
Layla’s practically vibrating. “Murph, the internet loves you. Well. They love her. And they love that you’re with her.”
“We’re not together,” I say quickly. Too quickly.
She waves that off. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is that people are eating it up. You’re trending softer. Less party boy, more boyfriend. Sponsors are into it.”
I lean back. “Are you saying I look like a boyfriend?”
“I’m saying you’re marketable. You and Sophie, whether real or fake, you’re good for your image. Family-friendly, still edgy, but with a rom-com heart. We’ve already had interest from a couple of new brands.”
She flicks through mock-ups on her tablet; me in branded joggers, me drinking protein smoothies with a wink, me and Sophie walking a dog that doesn’t exist.
“What if she’s not on board with it?” I ask.
