Page 40 of Power Play
I hit my stride around room four. The boy there, Max, is eleven and knows more about our stats than some of the guys do. I end up signing the back of his cast and promising to pass a message on to Dylan, who he calls “The Legend of Ice.”
“Tell him to score for me,” Max says, as if it’s a done deal.
“He’ll do it,” I promise.
When we step out into the hallway again, Sophie’s there. Clipboard gone. Coffee in hand.
“Making friends?” she asks, cocking a brow.
“I’m a delight,” I say. “Children love me.”
“They love puppies too.”
I grin. “You saying I’m adorable?”
“I’m saying you lick things you shouldn’t.”
Jacko chokes on his laughter. “Right. I’ll just go check the next room, shall I?”
Sophie watches him disappear, then turns back to me. There’s a flicker of something in her face now, something softer. She tilts her head. “You were good with Max,” she says.
“Yeah?”
She nods. “Didn’t think you had that gear.”
“I contain a multitude of gears.”
She snorts, then sips her coffee. “You read my message?”
“I did.”
“And you’re not going to argue?”
I step closer. Not touching her. Just enough so she’ll feel it. “Oh, I’m definitely going to argue. Just not here.”
She blinks at me. Then mutters, “Prick,” without much heat.
I grin. Because the thing is, she can say it’s fake all she wants. She can write the rules out in texts and pretend she’s in control. But I see the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention. And I’m going to prove her wrong.
One hospital visit at a time.
We have one last thing to do before we can leave. The hospital recreation room has been cleared to make space. Bright murals of cartoon animals stretch across the walls, and someone’s set up a balloon arch behind the lineup of folding chairs where a few of the children sit, IV poles trailing beside them like silent sentinels. Some are in wheelchairs. Others lean against nurses in pale blue scrubs. Laughter rings out as one of the kids tugs Jacko’s beard and declares him “the Yeti with skates.”
I stand tall in my team jersey, positioned dead centre in the back row. The room smells of antiseptic and banana-scented sanitizer. My attention is locked on the woman to my right, Sophie.
“You’re standing too close,” Sophie murmurs without looking at me, her arm brushing mine.
“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” I mutter back. “I’m providing emotional support. It’s charitable.”
“Your definition of charity sounds a lot like groping.”
“I haven’t even started groping. But thanks for the green light.”
Sophie turns her head just enough to level me with a look that could fry my larynx. “Murphy.”
“What?”
The camera clicks. One of the kids, Maya, the tiny girl with theoxygen tubes and glitter nails, throws up peace signs and yells, “You two are my OTP!”
