Chapter 32 Murphy
MURPHY
It'd been over a week since that magical night with Hillary. That night had changed everything for him. He had been so certain it was something real, but she had pulled back. He wasn't sure what to do. Even here on his holiday break, he was lost.
Murphy lay sprawled in his childhood bed, staring at the ceiling. The room hadn’t changed much since he was a teenager. Posters of old hockey heroes still taped to the walls, his high school trophies lined up on a shelf as if they belonged to someone else.
It was Christmas morning. He should’ve been downstairs, laughing with his family, ripping open presents with his little brother, sneaking cinnamon rolls while they were still too hot to eat. Instead, he was glued to his phone.
He scrolled through his texts with Hillary, the thread quiet for days. He’d thought—no, he’d known—after that last night together, things were different. Real. But since then? Nothing but polite deflections and silence.
He hated it.
With a sigh, he typed the words anyway.
Murphy - Merry Christmas, Boss.
He hit send before he could second-guess it, then turned the phone face down on his chest. He told himself he wasn’t waiting, that it didn’t matter if she answered. But every nerve in his body buzzed, listening for the faint ping that never came.
The door banged open. His brother barreled in, still in flannel pajamas, eyes shining. “Murph, come on! Mom says you’re holding up Christmas!”
Murphy shoved his phone under the pillow and forced a grin. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”
But as he followed his brother out, the weight of that unanswered text pressed against his chest, heavier than anything he could carry.
Christmas at the Murphy house was always loud, always messy, and always perfect.
His dad had already tracked half the driveway’s snow inside on his boots.
His mom flitted between the kitchen and the living room, humming along to carols while she plated cinnamon rolls, her sweater dusted with flour.
His sister, Maddie, was curled up on the couch scrolling, pretending not to laugh at their dad’s terrible jokes.
And Patrick was on the floor, shaking every gift with his name on it, his joy filling the room bigger than any tree.
This house wasn’t fancy. His dad was a plumber, his mom a third-grade teacher. Life had been hard at times, especially with Patrick’s health struggles, but there was always love here. Always warmth.
And now, Murphy could help. He covered bills when things got tight. He made sure Maddie had everything she needed for school, that Patrick had the care and comforts he deserved. It felt good, right, to give back to the people who had given him everything.
He leaned against the doorway, soaking it in. The laughter, the chaos, the smell of cinnamon and coffee, the love was palpable, woven into the walls.
But his chest ached as his thoughts drifted to Hillary.
Was she with her family, in that cold, too-big house, where smiles were brittle, and words cut sharp? Was she sitting alone, trying to pretend she didn’t care? Or worse, was she at her own place, working through the holiday like it was any other day?
The thought of her there, quiet and alone, killed him.
Because she deserved this. All of it. The noise, the love, the warmth of being wanted.
He wanted to give it to her.
And maybe she’d never let him.
By the time the last scraps of wrapping paper had been shoved into a trash bag and the cinnamon rolls devoured, Murphy finally gave in and checked his phone again.
Still nothing.
The ache in his chest deepened, but before he could linger on it, Patrick called from the card table. “Murph! You in? We’re starting Sorry!”
Murphy shoved the phone into his pocket and crossed the room, dropping into the chair beside his brother. “You’re going down, man.”
Patrick grinned, already setting up the board. As the game unfolded, he started talking about his new job through the work program. “I’m working concessions now at the arena. Next time you play in Boston, I’ll be there, handing out pretzels. But maybe someday I can do the t-shirt cannon!”
Murphy leaned over to bump his shoulder. “That’s amazing, Pat. I’m proud of you.”
Patrick glowed, and the joy in his face made Murphy’s chest swell. As the game continued, Patrick had a coughing spell, and Murphy patted him on the back before handing him a box of tissues. He always seemed to have a cold this time of year.
Hours later, after the games and laughter wound down, Murphy ducked upstairs to pack his bag. His mom slipped in quietly, folding one of his sweatshirts with care before setting it on top.
“There’s something I should tell you,” she said softly. “Patrick’s doctors want to move forward with the valve replacement.”
Murphy froze, his chest clenching.
“He’s strong,” she rushed to add. “They think the timing is good. But it’s surgery.”
Murphy swallowed hard, then reached into his wallet. He pulled out a check and held it out. “For whatever you need.”
His mom shook her head firmly. “Murphy, no. Your gifts were already too much.”
“Mom.” He pressed the check into her hand. “You and Dad gave up so much for me. Let me do this. Giving back to you . . . it makes me happy.”
Her eyes filled as she hugged him tight, kissing his cheek. “I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you.”
Murphy held on, closing his eyes.
He said his goodbyes and was about to get everything packed up into his car. When he walked out there, his dad was in the driveway with the hood of his car popped.
"Just checking your oil," he said as he lowered the hood.
"Thanks, Pop," he said before he walked over for a hug.
They were joined by the rest of his family. His mom and sister handed him his bags, packed with leftovers from the holiday meal, and his brother gave him a big hug.
"We'll miss you," his mom said, pulling him down to kiss his cheek.
He got in his car and pulled down the drive as his dad slipped his arm around his mom, and his family waved.
They were a holiday card, and Murphy couldn't imagine growing up any other way.
And now he had the best of both worlds. He made enough money so none of them had to worry about it anymore.
He could help to take care of Patrick and would probably take care of him later in life.
But he still had that warmth and close-knit family that had been forged in meals of ramen noodles and taking the bus home after late-night practices to help out.
In fact, he'd gone to BU and lived at home for the first two years until he moved into the hockey house. He got drafted in his senior year and was lucky enough to stay close enough to Boston that he was still able to help out and feel close to his family.
As he was on his drive back to Glendale, he tried again to call Hillary, but got nothing. He wished he knew what had changed. Being with her was like being on a roller coaster, but it was worth every drop and loop.
The drive back to his condo felt endless. The highway blurred, and Christmas lights twinkled on houses he barely noticed. His family was behind him, warm and safe, and yet his chest ached with something he couldn’t leave there.
By the time he pulled off the main road, he realized where he was headed, and it not toward his own place, but toward hers.
He told himself it was just to see. To reassure himself that she wasn’t alone, lights off, curtains drawn. Maybe Sydney was with her. Maybe she was laughing, wine glass in hand, and he could drive home knowing she was okay.
But when he turned onto her street, his stomach flipped.
Her car sat in the driveway still covered in snow. The house was dark except for a single lamp glowing in the living room window. One lone light.
He parked at the curb, hands tightening on the steering wheel.
Was he hoping she wouldn’t be home? Or was he praying she’d open the door? He didn’t know anymore.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he killed the engine, climbed out, and crossed the quiet yard. Each step crunched in the snow, loud in the still night.
He reached the porch, lifted his hand, and knocked.
The sound echoed, his heart pounding with it.
And then silence.
He was about to turn back to his car, but then the door slowly opened.