Page 87 of Power Play
Turns out, waking up with Sophie tangled around me is my new favourite thing. Even better than scoring the winning goal or finding an extra chicken nugget in a six-pack. Her hair’s a mess, her mouth slightly open, and she makes this soft humming noise in her sleep that I swear is better than any lullaby.
I should get up. Training starts in an hour and I’ve got no business still being in bed. But I can’t bring myself to move. Not when her leg’s slung over mine and her arm’s tucked against my chest like she belongs there.
Because she does. Christ, shedoes.
“You’re staring,” she mumbles, not even opening her eyes.
“Can you blame me? You’re fit.”
Her lips twitch. “You’re clingy in the mornings.”
“You love it.”
She cracks one eye open. “Unfortunately, I do.”
Eventually, I drag myself out of bed, kiss her half a dozen times more than necessary, and head to the rink. The guys give me a hard time for showing up late, but I’m in too good a mood to care.
Jonno puts us through hell. Drills. Sprints. Stick work until my arms feel like noodles. Dylan skates up beside me at one point, smirking.
“Someone’s got post-shag stamina.”
I bark a laugh. “Jealous?”
“Terrified,” he mutters. “Mia’s going to make me do yoga again.”
After training, I shower quick and shoot Sophie a text.
Murphy: Still alive. Barely. Send snacks or nudes.
She replies almost instantly.
Sophie: Can do one better. Meet me at mine. Pasta and the possibility of seeing me in nothing but socks.
I jog the rest of the way to my car.
At her flat, the door swings open before I can knock. She’s in tiny shorts and a hoodie that looks suspiciously like one I left here. Her hair’s up, cheeks flushed, and she’s holding a bowl of crisps.
“This is the welcome I deserve.”
“You’re sweaty. Don’t touch me until you smell less like a locker room.”
I lean in anyway, pressing my nose to her neck.
“Murph!”
“You love it,” I say again, stealing a crisp and her attention with a quick kiss.
We spend the afternoon like that. Eating, bickering, kissing. She sprawls on the sofa while I massage her feet, mock-complaining about her choice in TV. She tells me I snore. I tell her she talks in her sleep about weird work stuff.
It’s good. Too good, maybe.
Later, while she’s curled against me, tracing patterns on my chest, she says, “You know we’re disgusting, right?”
“Hopelessly loved-up? Absolutely.”
She snorts. “Do we care?”
“Not even a bit.”
