Page 68 of Power Play
“I think they’re perfect.”
“I’m serious though,” I say, voice soft. “I’m gonna tell Layla. We’ll do the shoots if you want to, yeah, but I’ll make it clear we’re not faking it. Not anymore.”
“It’s real,” she says. “All of it. And if you want to tell her, do it. I’ve got your back.”
“I’ve got yours too,” I murmur. “Even when you make me take ten selfies just to get one good one.”
“That’s called quality control.”
“Yeah, well, quality girl deserves quality effort,” I say.
There’s a pause, before she giggles and says, “That was weirdly smooth.”
“I’ve been saving it.”
We hang up a few minutes later, after a bit of teasing and one very smug reminder from Sophie that I’mofficiallypunching way above my weight.
Coach yells for us to line up again.
I tuck my phone away, my chest feels lighter than it’s been in days.
The sponsorships? The media hype? The chaos? It’s just noise.
But Sophie? She’s the signal cutting through it all.
And I’ll never let her be background noise again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SOPHIE
Idon’t cry when Murphy hangs up. Which, given my track record with men, is basically personal growth.
I do, however, stare at the phone as though it just insulted my wardrobe choices. Which, again, is growth. Because the old me would’ve called him back and cracked some joke about athletes being emotionally constipated just to cover the tiny ache in her chest.
But this? This is different.
Because Murphy sounded serious. Actually serious. Like this thing between us is more than Instagram fluff and croissants and winking at each other across pubs.
And itis. I know it is.Weknow it is. The problem is, the world doesn’t. Layla certainly doesn’t, with her sponsorship briefs and staged photo nonsense. She still thinks we’re faking it and playing dress-up for the cameras.
Except I’m not playing. Not anymore.
Which is exactly why I need wine. And backup. Preferably in the form of Mia Clarke.
“You broughtwhat?”
Mia stares at the bag I drop onto her sofa as though I just handed her a ferret.
“Three kinds of cheese, a bottle of red, and the world’s most offensive rom-com.”
“You meanLove, Actually?”
“Ding ding ding,” I sing. “Because nothing says emotional clarity like Hugh Grant dancing through 10 Downing Street.”
She snorts but grabs the corkscrew. “God help me.”
We settle into her sofa like we’ve done a hundred times before; barefoot, snacks balanced on a makeshift platter, the wine already half gone. It’s familiar. Safe. Except this time, I’m buzzing. Not in a drunk way. In ahe kissed me like I was the only girl on Earthkind of way.
