Page 54 of Power Play
She snorts. “You’re the one who skated right up to the glass like a bloody rom-com hero.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining.”
“I’m not. I’m…” Her voice trails off, and when I glance at her again, she’s looking at me with something softer than a smile. “I’m completely gone for you, you idiot.”
And my heart flips.
I pull her hand to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, one by one. “Good. Because I’ve been gone for you since you called me a twat the first time we met.”
She laughs, full and free, and the tension that’s been simmering in my chest ever since I got off the ice breaks apart.
Back at mine, we kick off our shoes, and I shrug out of my coat with a groan. The post-game aches are setting in quick and bruises are blooming already, but I’d take ten more if it meant ending the night like this.
Sophie walks in as though she belongs here. Drops her bag by the door, kicks her shoes off and pads barefoot across the carpet as if she’s done it a hundred times. And I realise, maybe in some part of me, I always wanted this. Her. Here.
“Want tea?” I ask.
“God, yes.”
She sits on the kitchen stool, legs crossed, watching me fumble with the kettle as though it’s the most fascinating thing she’s ever seen. I’m still buzzing too much to sit. Still high from the game. From her. From the way she looked at me like I hung the fucking moon.
“You were unreal tonight,” she says. “I’ve never seen you play like that.”
“Because I’ve never had you watching like that.”
She raises an eyebrow, but she’s blushing again, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. I set the mugs down in front of her, and sit opposite, and for a moment we just exist. In the quiet hum of the flat with steam curling from our tea. My bruised ribs aching. Her smile undoing me.
“I meant what I said, you know,” I say. “About being ridiculously in love with you.”
She sets her mug down carefully. “I know. I meant it too.”
And then something locks into place in my chest. A puzzle piece I didn’t realise was missing. Like breathing easier. Like home.
Later, she’s tucked under my duvet, wearing one of my old t-shirts, her bare legs tangled in mine. My hand rests low on her hip, and we’re lying in that quiet, perfect space between talking and sleep.
I should be wrecked. My body’s begging for rest. But I don’t want to close my eyes. I don’t want to miss a second of this.
She traces lazy circles on my chest. “Does this feel weird?”
“Sleeping with the fittest woman in Britain in my bed? No complaints from me.”
She smacks me lightly. “I meant this. Us.”
I think for a beat. “It feels right.”
“Even with the whole team probably betting on how long it’ll last?”
“Let ’em bet. I’d bet everything I’ve got on you.”
She goes quiet again, fingers still on my skin. “Murph?”
“Yeah?”
“I think I was scared this would ruin things. That we’d try, and it wouldn’t work, and I’d lose you.”
I shift so I can see her face better. She’s not crying, but there’s a pinch in her brow. That deep, thoughtful Sophie expression that always gets me.
“You’re not going to lose me,” I say, threading my fingers through hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”
