Chapter 21 Hillary
HILLARY
By the time Hillary got into the office the next morning, her head was already pounding. The late night at the concert had left her wrung out, and now it was game day—always the busiest. Her inbox was stacked, her planner already filled with more meetings than hours in the day.
Sasha breezed in, humming one of North Star’s songs under her breath, phone in hand.
“You have to see this.” She dropped into the chair opposite Hillary’s desk and spun her phone around.
Metrics and engagement charts filled the screen.
“The collab is everywhere. Trending on TikTok, Instagram, everywhere. The band’s fans are losing their minds, and so are ours.
This is the kind of content people remember. ”
Hillary managed a smile. “It worked out.”
“Worked out?” Sasha shot her a look. “This was gold. Pure gold.”
And she was right. Hillary felt it too, the thrill of pulling off something big, something the whole league would be talking about. The footage had been incredible, the players had been perfect, and the band had been generous and enthusiastic. It was a win in every sense.
But the unmovable pit in her stomach remained.
Every time she thought about the concert, her mind circled back to Murphy.
To him, laughing, dancing—with someone else.
Someone his age. Someone who probably listened to North Star unironically and didn’t need to Google them first. Someone who wasn’t weighed down by baggage, by too many birthdays, by being too serious for her own good.
He deserved that. Didn’t he?
“Okay, I’m off to prep pregame socials,” Sasha said, springing up again. She gave Hillary a curious look but didn’t press. “Don’t work yourself into the ground.”
When the door clicked shut, Hillary dropped her forehead to her desk. The wood was cool against her skin, the silence too sharp in her ears.
A knock sounded a moment later.
She groaned. “Come in.”
The door opened, and there he was. Murphy, broad-shouldered and smiling, a coffee cup in one hand and a familiar paper bag in the other.
“I thought you could use this,” he said simply.
The scent of lemon-blueberry drifted across the room as he set the bag on her desk. Hillary’s lips betrayed her, curling into a smile before she could stop them.
For a beat, Hillary just stared at him, stunned he’d even come. After last night—after the way she’d been cold to him on purpose—she hadn’t expected him to show up at her door with coffee and muffins.
Her stomach twisted. He hadn’t deserved the ice treatment, not really. He’d been dancing, laughing, caught up in the night. And she’d punished him for it.
The guilt made her words sharper than she meant. “Did you get her number?”
She wasn’t sure what she wanted him to say. Part of her thought maybe she wanted to hear he did—that it would prove her right. That he’d be better off with someone younger, someone his age. Someone uncomplicated.
But when his grin spread across his face, her heart sank. Oh no. He did. He’s about to tell me all about it.
Murphy leaned his elbows on her desk, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Now why would I do that,” he said, “when I’m already obsessed with someone else?”
Her breath caught, heat spiking in her chest full of jealousy, sharp and immediate.
He straightened, still grinning. “I’ve always had a thing for powerful women.”
And then he walked out, easy and unbothered, leaving her speechless in her office chair.
Hillary sat frozen, her coffee cooling in her hand. She didn’t know what to do with any of it—the way he unraveled her control so easily, the way one line from him could undo hours of carefully constructed walls.
Her phone dinged on the desk.
Hillary reached for her phone, the notification still glowing. It was from Sasha.
Sasha - Hey, can you check the comments? Do you want me to turn them off?
That got her attention. She tapped through to the team’s socials, scanning the feed. Overnight, hundreds of comments had piled up on the collab posts.
Most of them were harmless. Fans screaming about the band, people raving over how cool it was to see hockey players dancing on stage.
But there was a definite theme running through them: how attractive the men were.
Wes and Ethan had their share of heart emojis, Conner and Cash were being dubbed “daddy material,” but Murphy—Murphy had whole threads dedicated to him.
Who’s the tall one?
I’d let him hip roll me any day.
Those Abs!
#MurphyNation
And on repeat with multiple gifs was the moment Murphy had pulled his shirt up, zooming in on his toned abs. North Star fans seemed a little different than the average hockey fan. How could she not have factored that in?
Yeah, okay, she got it. Murphy was hot. She knew that better than anyone. But seeing strangers reduce him to a collection of gifs and thirst posts made something sharp coil inside her.
What is wrong with me? she thought, scrolling faster. If this were just work, if this were just about managing the team’s image, she wouldn’t be so worked up. But with everything messy and undefined between them, every comment felt like a personal jab.
A knock sounded. Sasha poked her head in, eyes wary. “So? What do you think? Should I shut them down? You know, after last year, I get a little twitchy about this stuff.”
Hillary set the phone down, forcing her voice steady. “Check in with the players first. If they’re uncomfortable, we’ll turn comments off. If not, keep monitoring. If it gets worse, we’ll step in.”
Sasha nodded, relief flickering across her face. “Okay. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
The door shut again, leaving Hillary alone with the silence and her own swirling thoughts. She pressed her palms flat against her desk, staring at Murphy’s name trending across the feed.
Professional. This was all supposed to be professional.
So why did it feel like her chest was on fire?
Her phone lit up again, vibrating against the desk.
This time it wasn’t Sasha. It was Sydney.
Hillary groaned, tipping her head back against her chair. She did not have the time or energy to deal with family right now. Between the game tonight, the aftermath of the concert, and the PR firehose that came with both, her brain was already fried.
But Sydney wasn’t just family. Sydney was . . . more. The one person who had always been worth answering, no matter what.
Hillary took a long sip of her perfect vanilla latte, letting the warmth settle her. She unwrapped the muffin, tore off a piece, and chewed slowly, bracing herself.
Then she hit call back.
“Hey,” Hillary said as the line connected. She heard a sniffle. “You sound—what’s wrong?”
There was a shaky breath on the other end, then Sydney’s voice cracked. “Did you check your email?”
Hillary frowned, already reaching for her laptop. “No, I’ve been buried in work. Why?”
“Don’t—” Sydney’s voice wavered. Then a sob slipped through. “She died.”
Hillary’s stomach plummeted. Her hands froze on the keyboard. “Who died?”
Her fingers scrambled across the trackpad, opening her personal inbox. And there it was, sitting like a stone in her chest.
An email. From her mother.
One line. Cold. Clinical. Impersonal.
Your grandmother passed away last night.
Delivered not with a phone call, not with compassion, but with pixels and subject lines.
Hillary stared at the screen, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Her grandmother. Gone.
And her mother had told her in an email.
Sydney’s voice was thick with tears. “I got some time off. I’m heading to Connecticut this evening. Do you want to come with me?”
Hillary felt like she was underwater, everything muffled, collapsing in on itself. The last twenty-four hours had already thrown her so far off balance. Murphy. The concert. The jealousy she couldn’t shake. And now this.
It needed to end. All of it. She needed control back.
“Of course,” she said numbly. “I’ll pick you up later, and we’ll drive together.”
They hung up, and Hillary sat for a long beat, staring at the dull glow of her computer screen. Then she stood, her body moving without thought, and walked down the hallway to Sasha’s office.
Sasha looked up from her desk, smiling, but the moment her eyes met Hillary’s, the smile fell away. “What’s wrong?”
Hillary swallowed hard. “My grandmother passed away last night.”
Sasha’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, Hillary. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
The old instinct slammed into place. The walls. The armor. The familiar numbness. Hillary straightened her shoulders. “I’m fine. We weren’t close. But I’m leaving today to help with arrangements.”
“Of course.” Sasha’s voice was gentle, steady. “I’ll handle things here. Don’t worry about work.”
Hillary nodded, her throat tight. “Thank you. Having you here—it’s good. I know I can leave it in your capable hands.”
Sasha pushed back from her chair and came around the desk. Before Hillary could protest, she wrapped her arms around her.
Hillary went stiff, every muscle taut. This wasn’t the kind of affection she was used to. Not in her family. Not anywhere. But then she inhaled, shaky and sharp, and let herself lean in.
She hugged Sasha back.
Just for a moment.
And in that moment, Hillary realized that, co-worker or not, Sasha was an amazing friend.
"Alright, well, I'm going to finish up a few things, but then I'm going to head out."
"Do you need anything?" Sasha asked with sympathy written all over her face.
"No, just knowing you are here holding it down is enough."
"Okay," Sasha said, pulling her back in for a quick hug. "We are here if you need anything."
"Thanks," Hillary said quickly before turning around and making her way back to her office. She was not good at this stuff, but her aptitude for emotions didn't seem to matter when she had a funeral to plan.