5. Jack
Jack
The press area is swarming with players and media.
Cords snake across the ground as another camera flash brightens the small space and sends a sharp spike of pain behind my left eye.
I blink it away before anyone notices. My teammates hassle the team’s social media intern about needing to wrap it up.
I straighten my suit jacket and paste on the smile I’ve worn a thousand times.
It’s early October. The home opener. We lost our first game on the road against Washington, and I’m determined not to let that happen again tonight.
An NESN reporter flags Alex and me forward to two metal chairs opposite her.
She must be new because I don’t recognize her.
Sharp brown eyes, long blonde hair in loose curls.
Pretty. Maybe under different circumstances, I’d already have her number.
Tonight, I need to keep my head straight.
We exchange a quick hello and settle in before the camera rolls.
“Jack Murphy. Big night. How are you feeling after that first loss?”
“Ready to win.” I rub my palm against my knee, pushing past the lump in my throat. I force myself to hold her gaze even though everything inside me screams to look away. “Good.”
Beside me, Alex sighs.
The reporter raises her brows and leans forward in her seat. “That didn’t sound reassuring.”
Alex shrugs. “I’ve known Murph a long time. ‘Good’ can mean a lot of things.”
I shoot him a look, which is better than tackling him to the ground. But to be clear, that’s exactly what I want to do. My best friend is about to blow this for me, and he doesn’t even know what he’s protecting me from.
“Thought we were friends,” I joke.
It’s a tired bit, the two of us. The media loves our banter. Alex is the team’s lovable goalie, and I’m the charming wild card.
As expected, the reporter laughs, then moves on.
“Last season ended with a pretty scary hit. Any lingering concerns after the concussion?”
Figured I’d be tossed a few soft, easy questions first, but fine. Let’s get it out of the way. I have a game to win.
“I took the time I needed.” I force a smile. “Doctors cleared me. I’m focused on tonight.”
Alex knocks his hand against my arm. “He’s good. We wouldn’t let him out there if he wasn’t.”
I love that he backs me up, but what I don’t like is the instant guilt twisting my stomach.
Because Alex doesn’t know about the headaches that wake me up every night.
Or the way the ice tilts sometimes if I push too hard.
He doesn’t know that the doctors who “cleared” me never heard about any of it.
“Boston fans will be glad to hear you’re doing well,” the reporter says. “But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t bring up the latest viral video featuring you, Murphy.”
“Just one?” Alex jokes.
I shift in my seat.
“Well,” the reporter continues, “that’s a good point.
Boston knows Jack loves the spotlight. But I specifically want to ask about Merritt Point.
Your family suffered a devastating loss at the end of the summer, and the family’s restaurant burned down.
You recently participated in a charity auction to benefit your hometown, and those videos went viral. ”
I sigh. “I haven’t seen them.”
“He’s lying.” Alex throws his hands up as soon as I level him with a glare. The snarky bastard chuckles. “Everyone loves Jack.”
The reporter smiles down at her notes. “As I was saying, the videos went viral. Fans are very curious about the woman who won the highest bid. Have you taken her on the date yet?”
“It was for charity,” I say. “There was a lot of damage after the fire. Just doing my part to help my hometown.”
“She owns a lovely bookshop called the Salty Romantic,” Alex adds cheerfully. “All the WAGs love it. Everyone should check it out.”
The WAGs love it? That’s news to me.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I grumble.
“I’m married,” he counters quickly. “I live vicariously through you.”
The reporter giggles softly, then tucks a curl behind her ear. “So nothing serious to report there then?”
I meet her gaze, my smile somehow still stuck in place. “It’s one date. For charity. That’s all.”
“You have a certain reputation—”
“I don’t want to talk about my personal life,” I cut in, surprised by the edge in my voice. Usually, I can keep the charm up, but it’s been two days since I’ve heard from her. She still won’t go out with me. And the flowers I sent didn’t win her over. My head is pounding.
The reporter raises her brows, barely masking her surprise, before she turns to Alex. “Speaking of married, how’s life off the ice these days, Alex? It’s been a few years since your romance with your wife had its own viral moment.”
He blinks. “Uh. Good. Busy.”
I catch the lie, surprised. Alex never lies.
“Great,” she says, already moving on. “Last question. What does tonight mean for the Breakers?”
Alex answers first, a little sharper than before. “It means we stop talking and start playing.”
I nod, feeling the loose grip of my charm melting beneath mounting frustration. I need to be on the ice. So instead of tiptoeing around, I give her the soundbite she wants.
“We’re here to play good hockey. Boston fans know it, and we don’t take that for granted. We’re a strong team this year, training camp proved that. Our lines are tight, and I’m in the best shape of my life. We’re going to win the Cup this year.”
Another flash goes off. Another spike of pain. I don’t even flinch.
The reporter thanks us and flags over the two new rookies for an interview next.
As soon as we’re in the hallway, I turn on Alex, loosening my tie. “You threw me under the bus.”
“You drove the bus, Murph. I’m just there for color. Everyone wants to hear from you.” His head is down, and his short dark-brown curls bob as we walk. “We’re going to have a good season, right?”
I’m not sure why it feels like a lie when I slap my hand across his back and say, “Of course.” I should let it go, but I can’t. “What’s going on with you and Molly?”
“Nothing, we’re fine. She’s been busy with school.”
Before I can fire back, Coach steps out into the hallway, eyes locking on me. He curls a finger. “Murphy. With me.”
A chorus of “Oohs” ripples from inside the dressing room. It’s almost time to get gear on and head out for warm-ups.
“I’ll deal with you fuckers later,” I call out, smiling when I hear the answering laughter from my teammates. I point at Alex as I step away. “Not going to forgive that easily. You’re dead to me.”
He taps his chest. “Can’t kill your only friend.”
“Watch me.”
“Won’t have to. Looks like Coach is going to take care of you first.”
“Please. If I were in trouble, he’d already be yelling.”
Coach snorts despite himself as I pass him, then folds his arms. “Navarro, it’s game time. Let’s go, Jack. Not going to ask again.”
My coach gestures to follow him, and I fall into step beside him without missing a beat.
We head to his office, down a long hallway buzzing with everyone who supports the team.
I can feel the tension and excitement in the air tonight.
Opening night always feels like Christmas Eve—that sugar rush of anticipation that happens after too many cookies and eggnog, waiting for the Big Man.
“Sit,” he orders.
I know when to be a good boy.
I sink into the chair, my eyes falling to the picture frames of family lining the bookcase behind him. Ava smiles back, as if she’s taunting me. I rub my sweaty palms over my knees and clear my throat, ready to get this over with.
Yes, Coach, I’m fucking your daughter.
Everything always looks easy for me. And maybe that’s the problem. When people decide you’re coasting, nothing really sticks. Doesn’t matter about your effort or if you have the best of intentions.
When I was little, I only played hockey because Ethan did.
He was the star—fast, focused, and the one everyone said was headed for something big.
Sloane’s dad, Jimmy Arden, adored him. He wanted him to chase every opportunity while I busted my ass at each practice and game, proving I had just as much right to be there as my brother.
I got good at making my coaches and teammates laugh.
Making my parents forget to worry. They had enough to figure out running the restaurant.
Whatever kept the peace. And if that meant being the clown, I’d do that too.
But my brother couldn’t get his head out of his ass in high school and lost his scholarship to Boston College after a bad fight with Jimmy’s son.
It seemed like all of Merritt Point was still stuck in their disappointment over Ethan while I landed the scholarship.
No one threw me a parade. Then I was drafted and went pro.
My family was excited, but they were busy.
It was lonely while I played a few years in Oregon as a rookie before I was traded to the Boston Breakers.
I know I’ve had a dream career. But that’s the thing.
I work fucking hard, and everyone assumes it’s easy for me.
Maybe I let them believe it. Maybe I’m just better at selling the lie.
Maybe I’ve been selling it so long that I don’t know what’s left when I stop.
I don’t know. But as I sit across from my coach, the look on his face tells me my time might be up soon.
“I don’t know how else I can get it through your head, Murphy, at how close you are to losing it all.”
“Losing what?” I shift in my seat, adrenaline already pumping through me. It’s that same pressure that filled my chest during the interview earlier. I need to get out on the ice, and I know I’m going to need whatever this frustration is to play hard. The New York Monarchs are a tough team.
“You keep running your mouth…”
Everyone seems obsessed with the fact that I have a certain reputation, but my coach, Christopher Kapeck, has one too. He’s a hard-ass with a wicked temper and possesses the remarkable ability of turning a shade of red that shouldn’t be humanly possible.