Page 55 of The Assist
I look at him, my jaw tight. “You watching that closely?”
“Mate, you’re not exactly subtle.”
I let the silence stretch between us. He waits, because he always does. Murphy doesn’t push. He lets you sit in your own shit until you’re ready to crawl out of it yourself. “I keep thinking about what he’d say,” I say finally. My voice is rougher than I expect.
Murphy tilts his head. “Your dad?”
“Yeah.” I rest my elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. “Every time I make a mistake on the ice, I hear it. ‘Sloppy.’ ‘Lazy.’ ‘Could’ve made that shot if you weren’t showing off.’ Like he’s stood behind the bench with his arms crossed, waiting to pick me apart.”
Murphy’s quiet for a second. “He hasn’t seen a game in how long?”
“Ever.”
“Then fuck him, mate.”
I laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Wish it was that easy.”
“It’s not,” Murphy says. “But that voice in your head? That’s not him anymore. That’s you. You’re the one keeping it alive.”
I stare at him.
“Look,” he says, nudging me again. “I know you think being angry is how you get better. But it’s not. You’re already the best player out there. Hasn’t got a damn thing to do with him.”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know how to explain it; this twisting ache in my chest. The craving for something I’ll never get. Just once, I want to hear him say he’s proud of me without following it up with a ‘but.’
And then there’s Mia. I know what he’d say about her too. That she’s a distraction. That I should be keeping it professional. That no woman is worth losing focus over. But he’s wrong. She’s not a distraction. She’s a fucking lifeline. And I can’t seem to reach for her without screwing it up.
I pull off the last of my tape and toss it into the bin. Murphy watches me for a beat. “You going to talk to her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should. Before one of you explodes from sexual frustration.”
“Thanks for the insight, Freud.”
He grins. “Anytime.”
The hotel roomfeels cold even though the radiator is on. I sit on the edge of the bed in a clean hoodie and joggers. TheTV’s on mute. Somehow it makes the room feel a little less empty.
I’ve checked my phone a dozen times and there’s nothing from her, not that I blame her. I was an arsehole before the game, short with her, snappy when I didn’t need to be. I saw her pick up on it, that wrinkle of concern between her brows, the way she backed off. I hated myself for it. But I couldn’t stop. Because I wanted her too badly. Because I’m my father’s son, and what if I fuck this up like he did?
I run my hands through my hair and groan. This is torture. I should knock on her door. Apologise. Tell her she’s not the problem, I am.
But I don’t move. I just sit there, drowning in it.
There’s a knock at the door around ten. I shoot up too fast, my heart thudding, stupidly hoping. But it’s Murphy, holding two beers and a hotel bag of crisps.
“Sorry, I couldn’t get the key card out. Jesus, you look worse than earlier.” He huffs out.
“Thanks.”
“You gonna sulk the whole night or you gonna drink with me and pretend to be a normal person for an hour?”
I close the door and take the beer. “What’s your idea of normal?”
He drops onto the bed. “Not pacing around like a man about to declare war.”
We sit in silence for a while, the TV still on mute, both of us pretending not to watch it.
