Page 27 of ICED
“You usedwords?” I mock-gasp. “Tocommunicate?”
Murphy flips me off. “Jacko, I swear to God, one more week on the sideline and I was gonna start scrapbooking.”
“You already scrapbook,” Ollie says.
“Icollect memories,” Murphy retorts. “It’s different. I don’t know, blame Sophie.”
We’re all laughing, but underneath the banter, there’s something else, that thrum of belonging. I didn’t realise how much I’d missed it until now. The jokes, the camaraderie, the way these idiots make the world feel a little less heavy.
Murphy claps me on the back gently, avoiding my shoulder and says, “We’ll win it for you, mate. Or with you. Next game, you drop the gloves first shift?”
I shake my head. “Only if someone gives me a reason.”
Murphy grins. “I’ll find you a reason.”
Later, after weights and stretches and a mandatory team meeting that mostly involved Coach ranting about offside calls, I head back to the flat. The leftover adrenaline from getting cleared hasn’t faded, but it’s not the only thing buzzing under my skin.
I keep thinking about Maya.
About the way she looked last night, tired, yes, but also softer somehow. Like her guard slipped for half a second and I got to see the real her underneath. The way she thanked me quietly, like she wasn’t used to anyone showing up for her.
It made me want to punch the past. Whatever’s made her so careful, so guarded, I want to burn it to the ground.
But I can’t. I can’t fix what I don’t understand. I can only show her that not all men leave bruises. That some of us stay, even when the raisins are squashed and the doors are locked and the past is a shadow behind her eyes.
I sit at the kitchen table again and pull my laptop closer.
Back to the car seat.
It’s a stupid little thing, but it feels like the right thing. Something practical. Quiet. Like I’m building a foundation for something that might not even happen.
But if itdoes,I’ll be ready.
I scroll through the bookmarked links, cross-check weight ranges, compatibility lists, safety ratings. I make a note to measure the backseat of my car and check the belt path. There’s one model that keeps popping up on every “top 5” list; safe, easy to install, works with Lila’s age and size.
I add it to the cart.
I don’t buy it yet. But it’s there. Just in case.
And maybe that’s what this is, really.
Just in case.
Just in case she needs me.
Just in case she lets me in.
Just in case this thing we’re building slowly, gently, turns into something more.
Tomorrow, I’ll text her. Something casual. Maybe offer to bring extra pastries to the bakery. Maybe just ask how she’s doing.
Whatever it is, it’ll be small.
But it’ll be real.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MAYA
