Page 96 of Power Play
“Not exactly my strong suit.”
She finishes the tape and pats my leg. “Try.”
I swing my legs over the side of the table, giving her a crooked smile. “Thanks, Clarke.”
“Don’t thank me. Just don’t screw it up.”
“Now that,” I say, hopping off the table with a grin, “is solid medical advice.”
I catch her smirk as I head out.
Still taped. Still aching. Still hopelessly smitten.
But maybe a little closer to something that lasts.
I drive home with the windows cracked, letting the cold air snap at my face like it might knock some sense into me. Sophie’s voice is on a loop in my head. Her reasons. Her questions. Why does she have to move intomyplace? Why can’tImove into hers?
I couldn’t answer properly then. Not really. I dodged with a joke and changed the subject with my mouth. Classic me.
The truth? I love my flat. It’s messy, sure. It smells of gear bags more often than not, and the neighbours definitely hate me. But it’s mine. The first real place I ever lived in that didn’t come with a bunkbed or a curfew. The first place that felt as though something I earned.
Giving it up feels like giving up a little piece of who I was before her. And maybe that’s selfish. Maybe that’s part of the problem.
But I’m not asking her to give everything up either. I’m not asking her to erase her independence or box up her candles and her aesthetic throw cushions. I just want us to build something new. Together.
And yeah, I’ve got stuff to work on. I know that. I’m messy. I talk too much. I leave empty mugs everywhere and sometimes I forget that love doesn’t fix everything, it just gives you something worth fixing it for.
She’s everything I didn’t know I was looking for. And if I have to wait until she’s ready? I will.
Because I’ve seen the future and it looks like her on my sofa in my hoodie, laughing at something stupid I’ve said while her knees are tucked under her and her hair’s tied up, in the wild curly way that makes it look like she has corkscrews coming out of her head. It looks like slow mornings and shared coffee and her toothbrush next to mine.
It looks like home.
And I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
Even the cup.
Even the game.
Even the win.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
SOPHIE
The kettle’s screaming as if it’s trying to warn me about something, and honestly, it might be right.
I flick it off with more force than necessary and shove a fruit teabag into my favourite mug, the bright yellow one with “Professional Overthinker” in bold across the front. Fitting. On brand. Painfully accurate.
I slide onto the sofa, tucking my legs under me, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Mum’s name for a full thirty seconds before I finally hit call.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Well, this is a surprise. Thought you’d run off to join the hockey circus full-time.”
“Very funny,” I say, but I’m already smiling.
“You always call when you’re about to make a rash decision. Should I be worried?”
