Page 30 of Power Play
Layla pauses. “Then we don’t push. But if she is, there’s a lot of opportunity here. Even one campaign would mean serious money.”
I nod, but my stomach’s tight. It’s not that I mind being seen with Sophie. I like it, actually. Probably too much. But now it feels as though we’re playing with something real, and I’m not sure if I’m in control anymore.
The rest of the meeting blurs by in a wash of numbers, projections, and me saying “yeah” a lot.
When I finally escape, I don’t head home. I drive to Sophie’s. I have no plan. No clever lines. Just this restless hum under my skin and the memory of her shoulder brushing mine on the living room floor.
She opens the door in leggings and my hoodie, her blonde curly hair piled on top of her head, and one sock rolled halfway down. She’s holding a mug of tea and looking at me as if I’ve just asked her to recite the periodic table.
“Hi,” I say.
“Did we have plans or did I black out?”
“No. I… uh I was nearby. Thought I’d say hi.”
She stares. “You were ‘nearby’ in the middle of nowhere, ten miles from the rink, with no takeaway bag in sight?”
I shrug. “You want takeaway? I can get takeaway.”
Her mouth twitches. “You’re weird.”
“You like it.”
She hesitates, then stands back. “Get in before the neighbours start judging me.”
I step inside and everything smells of jasmine and fabric softener. Her place is tidy but lived-in, cluttered in that charming way that says she doesn’t believe in minimalism.
We end up on the sofa. She reclaims her tea and I look at her as though I’m trying to figure out how to start this. “You’ve been trending,” I say finally.
She narrows her eyes. “That sounds like a threat.” I pull up the photos on my phone and pass it over.
She scrolls. Then blinks. “Is that... are those fan sites?”
“Apparently we’ve got chemistry.”
“Chemistry or delusion?”
“Bit of both.”
She snorts and keeps scrolling. “So, what now? We sell matching mugs?”
“Layla wants us to do a campaign.”
She looks up sharply. “Us?”
“Only if you want to. We can say no. I can say no.”
There’s a long pause. Her face softens. “Murph. Are you okay with all this? With what people think?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Sometimes it feels like a laugh. Sometimes it feels like something I really want. And sometimes it feels as though I’m standing on a cliff trying to decide if it’s a good idea to jump.”
She sets the mug down and tucks her legs beneath her. “You don’t have to jump for anyone.”
“Not even for you?”
Her eyes meet mine. She’s quieter now. “Especially not for me.”
I don’t mean to lean closer; I don’t even think about it. I just do it. She doesn’t move away.
