Chapter 34 Murphy
MURPHY
The video review blurred in front of him.
Clips ran, plays froze, arrows drawn on the screen, but none of it stuck.
Murphy sat there, pen in hand, trying to jot notes, but all he could see was Hillary’s face from Christmas night.
The finality in her voice. The way she’d looked at him like she was already gone.
He shifted in his chair, restless, wishing the meeting would end. The ice—that was where he needed to be. Out there, his body could take over. Maybe he could skate hard enough that the ache in his chest would go quiet.
Finally, Coach clicked off the screen. Relief loosened Murphy’s shoulders until the door opened and Hillary walked in.
She carried a coffee cup. The one he’d left on her desk this morning, a silent peace offering, just like he'd continued to leave her. She set it down like nothing was wrong, like they were just coworkers, like she hadn’t ripped him open three nights ago.
It should have gutted him. Instead, warmth spread in his chest. She’d kept it. She hadn’t thrown it away.
Maybe they could still be friends. Maybe he didn’t have to lose her completely.
“Ethan, Wes—hold back a sec,” Coach barked. “Everyone else, get ready for ice.”
The room sprang to life with chairs shifting, guys muttering, bags unzipping. Murphy all but bolted, grateful to escape.
In the locker room, he tugged at his gear with rough hands, shoving his arms into pads, tying his skates too tight.
“You good?” Conner asked, settling into the stall beside him. His voice was quiet, for Conner anyway.
“Just tired from the holiday travel,” Murphy said quickly, pulling his laces taut. “I’m ready to get out there. Give what I’ve got.”
Conner studied him for a beat, but didn’t press. Just clapped him on the shoulder before heading out. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake loose the storm in his chest.
The second his skates hit the ice, the world narrowed. The cold air hit his face, the boards rattled with the first drills, and his lungs burned as he drove himself harder.
Conditioning. Perfect.
He could do this. He could push his body until it screamed. Until the pain in his chest was drowned out by the fire in his legs. Until he was too exhausted to think about her.
The whistle blew, and the first sprint began.
Murphy launched himself forward, blades cutting sharply against the ice. His lungs burned immediately, but he leaned into it, forcing every stride to be longer, harder. The sound of skates slicing ice and sticks clattering echoed around him, but all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.
Back. Forth. Again.
He didn’t let himself ease up, not even when the drill called for it. His thighs screamed, sweat stung his eyes, but he pushed harder.
“Jesus, Murph,” Cash called as they skated back into position. “You're skating like you’re trying to punish the ice.”
Murphy didn’t answer. Just bent forward, catching his breath, then straightened and waited for the next whistle.
Beside him, Wes gave him a side-eye. “You okay, man? You’re gonna blow out a lung at this pace.”
“I’m fine,” Murphy ground out.
But he wasn’t. Not even close.
The next sprint started, and he went again, harder, faster, until his vision tunneled.
When the whistle finally cut the drill, Conner coasted up beside him, steady as always. “Murph. You good?”
Murphy bent over his stick, sucking in air. “Yeah. Just—” He forced a grin, one that felt brittle on his face. “Holiday travel, like I said. Don’t want to get too soft. But I’m good.”
Conner’s gaze lingered, searching, but he didn’t press.
The last whistle of the drill echoed off the rafters, and Murphy bent over, hands on his knees, chest heaving. His jersey clung damp to his back, sweat dripping into his eyes. He’d skated like his life depended on it, and still the ache in his chest hadn’t eased.
Finally, Coach called it. “Good work. Hit the showers.”
Murphy shoved his stick under his arm and headed for the tunnel. As the rest of the guys joked and chirped, he pulled his phone from his bag, thumbing the screen on.
One new message.
Mom - Call me. Patrick’s in the hospital.
The floor tilted under him. How was that even possible? He’d seen him three days ago. Yes, he had a cold, and Patrick’s health could always turn on a dime but he hadn’t seen this coming. He ducked into the nearest empty hallway and hit call.
His mom picked up on the first ring. “Murphy, it’s okay,” she said quickly, her voice calm but tired. “He’s okay. They admitted him for pneumonia, just as a precaution. The doctors want to keep him overnight. The sniffles and cough he’s been fighting got worse, but he’s okay.”
Murphy slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, skates still laced tight, helmet dangling from his hand. Relief and fear tangled in his chest. “Okay. Okay. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll call again later. Tell him I love him.”
He hung up, pressing the phone to his forehead, forcing his breath steady.
“Murph?”
He looked up to see Conner standing a few feet away, gear slung over one shoulder. The captain’s steady gaze pinned him in place. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Murphy said quickly, too quickly.
Conner’s expression didn’t change. He just stepped closer. “Don’t give me that.”
Murphy exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “My brother’s in the hospital. You know, he has Down syndrome—pneumonia hits him hard. They’re keeping him overnight.” Not a lie. Just not the whole truth.
Conner’s expression softened, all business stripped away. “Murphy. You can go. Family comes first.”
Murphy shook his head. “My mom said he’s okay. Just wanted me to know. If she needs me, I’ll be there. But for now . . . ” He swallowed hard. “For now, hockey.”
Conner studied him for another long moment, then nodded once. “Alright. But if you need anything, you tell me. Anything.”
Murphy nodded, his throat too tight for words.
For now, all he could do was skate.
The locker room buzzed with laughter and showers running, but Murphy kept his head down as he stripped out of his gear. He moved on autopilot—jersey peeled, pads off, skates unlaced—until he was standing in just shorts and a T-shirt, sweat already cooling against his skin.
He shoved his things into his bag and didn’t stop moving. If he paused, the weight of it all—Hillary’s silence, Patrick in the hospital, the hollow ache in his chest—would crush him.
The weight room was mostly empty this late in the day, the clank of plates and hum of the ventilation system echoing in the space. Murphy loaded a barbell, gripped it tight, and pushed.
Again. And again. And again.
Muscles screaming, lungs burning, sweat pouring down his back.
The physical pain was familiar. Manageable. The kind that bent to willpower, the kind he could outlast.
And if he kept pushing, just a little harder, just a little longer, maybe his heart would catch up.
The burn felt good.
Soon, he told himself.
Soon his heart would too.