Page 58 of Power Play
This thing with Murphy? It might still be new. Fragile. Wild.
But it’sours.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve finally stopped chasing the wrong stories.
Because this one feels like it’s worth writing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MURPHY
The guys are already half a pint down by the time I saunter into the pub like I own the place, which, to be fair, I basically do. Not legally or anything. Just spiritually.
Jacko’s wedged into the booth like a sentient fridge freezer, The Rookie’s yelling something about Northerners being genetically superior, and Dylan, our captain of brooding, is nursing a pint and looking like someone just ran over his puppyandgave him a hug afterward, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about either.
“Murph!” Ollie waves at me like a toddler whose dad just got home from work.
“Boys,” I say, throwing my arms wide as I approach. “Prepare yourselves. I’ve arrived, I’m handsome, and I smell of Sophie’s conditioner.”
The rookie groans. “Christ. It’s been, what, four days? And you’ve turned into a walking Pinterest quote.”
I drop into the seat next to Jacko and steal a chip off his plate. “Love does that to a man. Expands the heart. Softens the soul. Gives me an almost psychotic attachment to hoodies that smell like her.”
Ollie squints at me. “You’re wearing her hoodie?”
“No,she’swearingmine. But I think I miss it more than my nan’s Yorkshire puddings.”
“Why do I feel like you’re one head tilt away from writing her a sonnet?” Dylan mutters without looking up.
“Jealousy’s a bad colour on you, Wintry D.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Besides, it’s boys’ night. No brooding allowed. It’s a pub, not your emotional dungeon.”
Dylan glares at his pint like it personally offended him.
Jacko grunts a laugh. “You lot are chaos.”
“Not me,” Ollie says. “I’m wholesome.”
“You sent me a photo of your abs at one a.m. last night,” Jacko replies.
“Because I was proud!”
“You added sparkles to it, mate.”
“Details.”
Ollie downs the rest of his pint and slams it on the table. “Right. Let’s get the rounds going before Murphy starts quoting Shakespeare.”
“Already ahead of you,” I say, standing up. “Who’s having what?”
Everyone calls out orders like I’m some kind of booze butler, and I head to the bar with Dylan trailing after me, probably to “help” but really to get away from the joy and warmth of human connection.
As we wait for the barman, I nudge him. “You alright, man?”
He shrugs.
Which is Dylan-speak forno, but I’ll never say it out loud because vulnerability is for post-game press conferences and private physio sessions.
“You wanna talk about it or shall I just roast you until you snap?”
