Chapter 17 Murphy
MURPHY
Murphy stretched out on the hotel bed, phone to his ear. His mom’s voice filled the room, warm and grounding in a way only home could be.
“Your sister’s already stressing about prom,” she was saying. “And your brother’s been asking when you’re coming home again. He’s got that big tournament in two months.”
Murphy smiled, picturing his brother’s determined grin. “Tell him I’ll be there if I can.”
Then her voice softened. “You sound good, Murph. Happy.”
He hesitated. Happy wasn’t the right word, not when half his chest felt like it belonged to someone who didn’t want it. But he made his voice light. “I am, Mom. Don’t worry about me.”
A knock sounded at his door. Murphy sat up. “That’s probably the guys. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
He hung up and shoved his phone into his pocket just as Cash’s voice bellowed from the hall. “Dinner time, Rookie!”
The walk to the steakhouse was short, snow crunching under their shoes, breath puffing white in the cold. The team was loud, laughing, and shoving each other, excitement humming in the air about the night ahead.
Murphy should’ve been laughing with them. Instead, the moment they stepped inside, his gaze zeroed in across the room.
Hillary.
She was seated at a table with the press and business staff, an emerald-green dress catching the light every time she shifted. It dipped low enough to make his throat go dry. He told himself not to stare, not to let it show, but every cell in his body trained toward her.
Cash elbowed him. “You good, man? You’re holding onto the breadbasket like it’s going to get away.”
Murphy snapped back fast, flashing them his usual grin. “Just making sure you guys don’t steal all the rolls.”
The table broke into laughter, and he laughed too. But when his eyes found hers again across the restaurant, the world went still. Hillary’s gaze caught his like a magnet, and for a moment—just a moment—it felt like everyone else had disappeared.
Dinner passed in a blur of clinking silverware and low conversation.
Murphy laughed when the guys cracked jokes, nodded along when Coach shared a story from his playing days, but his attention kept drifting.
Every time he risked a glance toward Hillary’s table, she was angled away, focused on her conversation with Sasha. Not once did her eyes find his again.
That was fine. He reminded himself for the hundredth time that this was work for her. She was here in her professional world, not in the secret spaces they sometimes stole away in together. He could be patient.
After dessert, the group bundled up and spilled back into the snowy street, the players loud and rowdy as they headed for the neon-lit karaoke bar further down the block.
By the time they crowded inside, the vibe had shifted.
Now more casual, less buttoned-up. Jackets shed, ties loosened, laughter louder.
Murphy eased closer to where Hillary and Sasha stood near the bar, not obvious, just enough to be in her orbit. He ordered a round, sliding a drink to Hillary with a casual ease before handing one to Sasha, too.
“Thanks, Murphy,” Sasha said, brows lifting just slightly.
Conner appeared a moment later, his eyes flicked to the drink in Sasha’s hand before shooting her a playful glare.
Murphy just grinned, leaning back against the bar like the picture of innocence.
Across from him, Hillary lifted her drink, lips pressing to the glass. Her eyes didn’t meet his, but the flush rising on her cheeks told him she felt it too.
Murphy leaned back in his chair, laughing along with Conner and Cash.
Hillary had surprised him tonight—not because she looked gorgeous, he already knew that, but because she was .
. . relaxed. Smiling, teasing Sasha, even laughing at Sven’s ridiculous attempts to charm the table of women near the bar.
It felt good. Like she was letting herself breathe.
Cash stood to leave, slipping his phone from his pocket. “Time to call Evie before she decides I’ve forgotten about her.”
“Look at you,” Conner teased.
“Better than listening to you murder Simply the Best again,” Cash shot back with a grin.
Conner raised his glass in mock salute. “The people love it.”
Murphy grinned, shaking his head. This—this was what he loved about the team. Easy. Solid. A little alcohol, a lot of laughter, nothing complicated.
“What are you singing?” Cash asked Hillary with a smirk.
She just raised an eyebrow. “I’m not.”
“I’ll help you, how about . . .” he flipped through a suggestion book on the table.
“Oh, this will be good,” Hillary said flatly.
“What about Strawberry Wine? Karaoke classic.”
Hillary just glared.
“No.” Cash said, turning his head back to the book. “How about It’s Raining Men? I mean, look around.”
“The answer is now and forever no,” Hillary said.
But Cash paid her no mind and continued to flip through the book. “How about you and Rookie get up there and sing I Got You Babe, another karaoke classic?”
“How about you get up there and sing Like a Virgin?” she shot back.
He let out a hearty approving laugh. “Not a chance. I’ll get the next round,” he said as he pushed back from the table and made his way to the bar.
The night continued on, and the banter and the booze were setting in like a warm hug.
“Next up—Hillary!”
Murphy’s head snapped toward her. She looked genuinely shocked, eyes wide.
“I didn’t—” she started, but her protest was drowned out by a wave of cheers.
Across the table, Cash slid his phone back into his pocket and flashed her a grin, utterly unapologetic. “Let’s see whatcha got.”
Hillary’s jaw dropped. “Cash—”
But the crowd was already chanting her name, the karaoke host motioning toward the stage. Murphy caught the faintest flush rising in her cheeks, the way her fingers tightened on the stem of her glass.
Murphy’s chest tightened. She hated this kind of spotlight.
Hillary stepped onto the small stage. The woman who could command a press conference without breaking a sweat, who could cut down a pushy reporter with a single arched brow, looked like she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
Her knuckles were white on the microphone, eyes flicking to the lyrics screen as though it might save her.
He knew that look. He knew she hated this. And he knew what he had to do.
Murphy tossed back the rest of his drink, slammed the glass on the table, and vaulted up onto the stage before he could second-guess himself. The crowd roared as he snagged the spare mic from the DJ, flashing Hillary a grin.
The opening chords hit. He didn’t hesitate.
“Let’s go, girls!” He gave it his best Shania Twain try, his hips already swinging with exaggerated, ridiculous confidence. The bar erupted with laughter.
Hillary’s eyes widened as he twirled dramatically, pointing at her like they were co-stars in the most absurd duet of the century. Slowly—reluctantly—she started singing along with him.
By the time they hit the chorus, Murphy was stomping across the stage like it was Madison Square Garden, hollering “Man! I feel like a woman!” while Hillary’s voice threaded in, shaky at first, then steadier. He nudged her shoulder, winked, and the room went wild.
When the last note rang out, the place exploded in cheers and applause. Murphy turned to her with a grin wide and triumphant.
But Hillary wasn’t cheering.
Her expression was tight, her mouth a flat line. Instead of clapping or laughing, she looked . . . furious.
The kind of pissed that made his stomach drop.
Murphy’s grin faltered, just a fraction. Around them, the crowd was still howling, but all he could see was her.
And all he could think was that he'd gotten it wrong.
Back at the bar, Hillary slipped her coat from the back of her chair and murmured something to Sasha. Murphy couldn’t hear the words over the roar of laughter and music, but he saw the way Sasha’s brows arched, the way Hillary’s shoulders were tight as she headed for the door.
No one else seemed to notice. But he did.
Murphy’s grin faltered. What had happened? He thought he’d been helping her. That he was lifting the pressure, making her laugh, taking the spotlight off her. But the look on her face . . . that hadn’t been gratitude.
Without stopping for his jacket, he shoved out into the snow. The cold slapped him in the face, but he barely felt it.
“Hillary!” he called.
She kept walking, coat wrapped tightly around her, boots crunching hard and fast against the ice.
“Hillary, wait!” He jogged after her, breath clouding in the freezing air. She stopped suddenly, turning. Her eyes cut into him, sharp with fury—but underneath, there was something else he couldn’t name. Something that made his chest ache.
“I’m sorry,” Murphy said, holding up his hands. “Look, I know I messed up there. I’m not sure how, but—”
She shook her head. “That was humiliating.”
She turned, making her way back.
“Talk to me,” he pleaded. “Please.”
Her voice was cool, clipped. “Why? What are we even doing here?”
“You looked freaked out up there. I was just trying to help.”
“Why?! There is nothing between us. I don’t need you coming to my rescue. Now everyone in there is going to think —”
Murphy’s stomach dropped. “It’s not nothing. You know it’s not. What are you running from?”
“I’m not running from anything.”
“You say we’re too different, but—”
“Because we are,” she snapped. “We have nothing in common.”
“I don’t believe that.” His voice was rough, his breath visible in the cold. “You think I’m too young? Fine. But age is just a number, Hillary. It does not define me or you for that matter.”
Her eyes flashed. “It’s not just that. We want different things.”
“How do you know what I want,” he shot back, “when you won’t even let me tell you?”
Silence stretched between them, their breath fogging in the night air, the hum of the bar faint behind them. Finally, her shoulders slumped.
“This has to stop. This is my job. And it’s interfering. I do not need you swooping in like that. I am capable of handling myself.”
His mouth hung open as he shook his head. “No one in that room doubts that you can handle yourself. I . . . I was just trying to help you.”
“And now everyone in there is talking about us. We need to be done. For both our sakes.”
Murphy felt the words like a punch, stealing the air from his lungs. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak. Then he nodded once, sharply. “If you need it to be done, okay. I’ll try.” He swallowed hard. “Can we still be friends?”
For the first time, her gaze softened. “Of course.”
The softness was worse than the anger. It broke something open in him.
“Wait,” he said, stepping toward her. “At least let me walk you back.”
“I’ll be fine.”
He started to protest, but she was already turning away, her coat pulled tighter. Murphy cursed under his breath, spun, and ducked back into the bar to grab his jacket.
When he came back out, the sidewalk was empty. She was already gone.
Murphy wondered if he’d lost her for good.