Chapter 22 Murphy
MURPHY
The locker room was already humming when Murphy walked in, gear bag slung over his shoulder. A few heads turned, and then the chirping started.
“Look who it is, Loverboy!” Ethan called, grinning widely.
“Careful,” Wes added, “one hip roll and half the internet’s ready to marry you.”
Cash snorted. “Better get a manager, Murphy. You’re about to be the face of boy-band-hockey.”
Murphy rolled his eyes, tossing his bag into his stall.
He didn’t mind. Not really. It was easier to laugh with them than admit how wild it still felt, seeing his abs plastered all over socials.
Conner caught his arm before he sat down, pulling him aside. “Hey. Just wanted to check in. You good with all this?”
Murphy blinked. “With what?”
“The attention,” Conner said. “The internet’s loud, man. It can get to you. Trust me.” His expression softened, voice lowering. “After everything last year with Sasha, I just want to make sure you’re not feeling pressured.”
Murphy swallowed, then nodded. “I’m okay. For now, anyway. It’s weird, but I can handle it.”
Conner gave him a solid pat on the shoulder like he believed him. “Good.”
Before Murphy could respond, the locker-room door opened, and Sasha slipped in, a big card tucked under her arm. “Hey, guys. I need all of you to sign this before warm-ups.”
“What’s it for?” Wes asked.
Sasha’s face softened. “Hillary’s grandmother passed away last night.”
Murphy froze.
The chatter of pens scratching on cardstock filled the room, but all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. Hillary. Grief tightening her chest. The memory of her crying in that hotel room, trying so hard to hold it together.
He wanted to go to her. Now.
As Sasha turned to leave, Murphy bolted after her, catching her in the hallway. “Wait—Hillary. Is she here?”
Sasha shook her head gently. “She was about to head out of town.” Her eyes narrowed, sharp with curiosity. “Why?”
Murphy forced his face into something neutral, fighting back the truth. Hillary didn’t want people to know. Not about them. Not about anything.
“Just . . . wanted to sign it,” he said with a shrug. “Make sure she knows we are thinking of her.”
Sasha studied him for a beat too long before nodding. “I’ll make sure she knows.”
Murphy nodded back, but inside, his chest was twisting. Hillary was gone. Hurting. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
By the time he pulled on his gear and hit the ice, Murphy’s head still wasn’t clear. The boards rattled with pucks, blades scraped ice, but his focus scattered like loose tape.
First pass—missed.
Shot at the net—wide.
Another drill—his stick fumbled, puck sliding off into the corner.
Conner skated by, snagging the loose puck, eyebrows lifted. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” Murphy muttered, forcing a smile. He wasn’t fooling anybody. His passes kept slipping, his timing off, his whole rhythm just . . . gone.
They wrapped warm-ups, heading back toward the tunnel. Wes dropped back to fall in beside him, helmet tucked under one arm. “Everything okay? You’ve been off since we started.”
Murphy clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to talk about Hillary. Couldn’t. “I’m fine,” he said, a little sharper than intended.
Murphy blew out a breath, letting his shoulders drop. “Yeah. My warm-ups were off, I’ll admit it. But it’s got nothing to do with the viral stuff. I’ll be good for the game.”
Wes held his stare for another beat before finally nodding. “Okay. Just checking.”
Murphy flexed his grip on his stick, forcing the tension out of his chest. He’d pull it together. For the team. For the game.
But deep down, he knew the truth. His head wasn’t scrambled because of the internet. It was because of her.
After warm-ups, they were back in the locker room.
Murphy slid into his stall, earbuds in, and let his pregame playlist drown everything out.
The bass thumped steadily in his chest, his own private rhythm as the noise of the room faded to a low hum.
This was his reset button. Music, focus, the game.
By the time they hit the tunnel and stepped onto the ice for introductions, his pulse had steadied. The crowd roared as the announcer rattled off the starting lineup. He tapped gloves with Wes, Conner, the rest of the line, and lifted his chin as the anthem filled the arena.
And just like that, the rest of it—Hillary, the comments, the grief tugging at his chest—fell away. Out here, there was only the game.
The first period was a grind, both teams pressing hard, but with less than a minute left, Conner scooped the puck at center ice and fed it clean down the line.
Murphy caught it, his skates cutting hard, and snapped a shot just inside the top corner.
The red light flashed, the horn blared, and the bench erupted.
1–0.
By intermission, he was still buzzing when the PR handler flagged him for a quick interview. Murphy tugged off his helmet, sweat slicking his hair, and on ice press box.
The man grinned. “Murphy, I’ve got to start here. You’re trending online again after last night. #MurphyNation. How does it feel to go viral for a boy-band dance?”
Murphy laughed, shaking his head. “Honestly? I did it for my little sister. North Star’s her favorite band. She’s the real fan in the family.”
The reporter chuckled, clearly charmed. “Well, she’s got plenty to brag about now. Let’s get back to hockey—huge goal to close out the first. What’s the mindset going into the second period?”
Murphy’s grin steadied into something calmer, more measured. “We’ve got to stay disciplined. Conner made a great pass, and I was just in the right spot. If we keep our feet moving and stick to our system, we’ll keep the momentum.”
“Appreciate it. Good luck in the second.”
Murphy nodded and jogged back toward the locker room, his focus already narrowing again.
Back to work.
They sealed the win 3–1, the final horn echoing as the crowd roared. Murphy skated off the ice with the same rush that had carried him through every shift—sharp, disciplined, exactly what he’d promised Wes and Conner.
By the time he’d showered and dressed, the adrenaline had dulled to a steady hum. He pulled out his phone before heading out, thumb hovering. He typed a quick message.
Murphy - How are you doing?
No response.
He pocketed his phone, jaw tight, and followed the guys to Westside Pub.
The place was extra tonight, buzzing with the glow of their win and the aftershock of the internet storm.
Normally, Murphy was the guy who drew polite smiles from the “bunnies” that orbited the team—attention that was easy to sidestep unless he showed interest. Tonight, though?
They were everywhere. Laughing too loud, leaning too close, angling for his attention.
He smiled, nodded, and kept his answers polite.
Sven slid onto the stool beside him, raising his beer. “Why’re you doing that?”
Murphy blinked. “Doing what?”
“Turning every single one of them down.” Sven tipped his chin toward the cluster of women nearby. “You’re the man of the night. You could have your pick.”
Murphy shrugged, playing casual. “Not into it.”
Sven’s eyes narrowed. “You seeing someone?”
The pause was too long. Sven’s grin sharpened. “Who is she?”
Murphy shook his head, but his mouth betrayed him, curving at the edges. “It’s new. But I’m hoping it’ll be something.”
Sven clapped him on the shoulder, satisfied, and slid off the stool to join one of the women who’d just peeled away from Murphy.
Murphy watched him go, then signaled for water instead of another beer. It was time to head home.
The walk back to his condo was brisk, the city lights cool against the night sky. He hadn’t told Sven the truth, not really, but for the first time, he’d let some of it slip. Said it out loud. And it felt good.
Back in his building, he checked his phone. Still nothing from Hillary.
His chest tightened. He typed again.
Murphy - I know you’re busy, but if you need anything—anything—I’m here.
A beat. No reply.
He added another, trying to lighten it. A gif of North Star’s lead singer belting into a mic.
Murphy - Since we’re best friends now, I can make this happen.
He hit send and stared at the screen, willing it to buzz. Nothing.
Murphy tossed his keys onto the counter and dropped into a chair, the hollow ache settling in. He wanted to be there for her, to do something. But she was gone, and he was stuck here.
Helpless.