Chapter 40 Hillary
HILLARY
Hillary balanced her phone in one hand and her work bag in the other as she nudged her office door open.
The sight waiting on her desk pulled a smile across her face despite herself.
Vanilla latte. Extra shot.
Murphy.
Even after everything—after she’d drawn the line, after she’d told herself distance was the only responsible choice—he was still leaving her coffee. Still thinking of her. She hung her coat on the back of the door and sank into her chair, willing herself not to linger on the ache in her chest.
This was for the best.
It had to be.
She powered on her laptop, bracing for another long day of managing narratives and putting out fires.
The knock came before her screen even finished loading.
“Come in,” she called.
Sasha swept in, phone clenched in her hand, her usual calm sharpened into something urgent. One look at her face and Hillary’s pulse kicked up.
“We’ve got a situation,” Sasha said, skipping preamble as she dropped into the chair opposite her. She slid the phone across the desk.
Hillary frowned and pulled it closer.
The headline made her stomach drop.
HOCKEY’S GOLDEN BOY CRACKING?
STAR FORWARD SEEN IN HEATED ARGUMENT, LATE-NIGHT DRAMA SPILLS INTO THE STREETS
Below it, photos loaded one after another.
Murphy outside a coffee shop, rain plastering his hair to his forehead, jaw tight as he spoke to someone just out of frame.
Another shot showed him standing alone moments later, shoulders slumped, staring down at the pavement like the weight of the world had finally caught up to him.
Then grainy images of him entering his building hours later, head down, posture closed, unmistakably dejected.
The captions were worse.
Speculation piled on speculation.
Was it a lover’s quarrel?
Trouble behind the scenes?
Burnout? Substances?
What finally cracked hockey’s golden boy?
Hillary’s throat went dry.
“Where did this come from?” she asked quietly.
“Freelancer with a long lens and too much time,” Sasha said. “They caught the argument outside the café and followed him. A gossip blog ran it first. Sports outlets are circling now, trying to decide how hard they can lean without pissing off the organization.”
Hillary scrolled, bile rising as she read the comments. Fans dissected his body language. Armchair psychologists were diagnosing him from a handful of still frames. Others sharpening knives, eager for the fall from grace.
“They’re already framing it as a pattern,” Sasha continued. “Golden boy image versus reality. Something has to be wrong if he’s standing in the rain looking like that.”
Hillary swallowed.
They weren’t wrong about one thing.
Something was wrong.
She slid the phone back across the desk and forced herself upright, slipping automatically into work mode. “Okay. We don’t panic, and we don’t feed the frenzy. No comments yet. We keep it boring.”
“Agreed,” Sasha said. “The trick is cutting through the bullshit without giving them anything juicy to chew on.”
Hillary nodded, though her focus felt fractured, like she was watching herself from a few steps outside her body. She’d built a career on control, on shaping narratives before they spiraled. On seeing three steps ahead.
And yet here she was.
Behind the curve.
Because she’d let herself get involved.
Because she’d let Murphy close. Because she’d believed, stupidly, that if they were careful, if they were quiet, they could keep it contained.
The press had gotten there first. And in doing so, they’d dragged Murphy and the organization into something ugly.
The knock came again, sharper this time.
Before Hillary could respond, Sasha stood. “I’ll bring him in.”
Panic flared hot and fast in Hillary’s chest.
“I’m not ready,” she said, too late.
Murphy stepped through the doorway anyway.
His usual brightness was dimmed, like someone had turned the volume down on him. He looked tired. Not just physically, but emotionally. His eyes flicked between them, searching.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “I got pulled out of the weight room and told to come here.”
Sasha gestured to the chair. “Have a seat.”
Murphy did, hands braced on his knees, posture open in a way that made Hillary’s chest ache. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d just existed in public while hurting.
And now he was paying for it.
“They’re spinning a story,” Sasha said, sliding the phone toward him. “Based on photos and vibes.”
Murphy scrolled, his brow furrowing. “This is ridiculous. I didn’t do anything.”
“I know,” Sasha said gently.
“This was from the night when Sven was a jerk about Natalie. Everything is fine, it was just a shit show . . . now they are saying I have a drug problem!?"
“Murphy, no one will believe this. Everyone knows this site is tabloid clickbait trash.”
His gaze lifted to Hillary.
She couldn’t meet it.
“What do I do?” he asked. Not defensive. Not angry. Just lost.
The question landed like a blow.
Because listening to her—following her rules, her caution, her insistence on distance—was exactly how they’d ended up here.
She was good at her job.
Always in control of the narrative.
Until now.
Hillary pressed her nails into her palms beneath the desk, grounding herself. “For now, we do nothing,” she said, keeping her voice professional even as something inside her cracked. “We don’t confirm or deny. We let the initial wave burn itself out.”
“Or we could lean into a more family-friendly persona. More stand-up guy, less . . . abs.” Sasha said.
Hillary shook her head. “No, but that is an option we will pull out if it doesn’t die down on its own.”
Murphy nodded immediately. “Okay. Whatever you need. I’ll do it.”
The ease with which he said it, the trust shown, made her chest tighten painfully.
This was her fault.
Every anxious thought, every whisper of scandal, every headline dissecting his expression, it all traced back to her letting her guard down. Letting herself want something she knew better than to touch.
Sasha stood. “I’ll coordinate with comms and legal. Murphy, you’re clear for the day. No socials. No statements.”
He rose, hesitating. “Hillary?”
She still couldn’t look at him.
“We’ll fix it,” she said quietly. “I promise.”
The door closed behind him, and Hillary finally let herself exhale.
She’d lost control of the narrative.
And worse, she’d dragged him down with her.
—
In the stillness of her quiet office, Hillary closed her eyes and took a few deep, cleansing breaths. She should know exactly what to do. She always knew what to do. She had gotten too close to this situation. Distance was what she needed.
And yet, hours later, Hillary found herself standing in front of a tall condo downtown, staring at the door she’d sworn she wouldn’t knock on.
Her hand lifted anyway, and the soft rap of her knuckles carried all the weight of her confusion, her guilt, and the piece of her heart she’d tried so hard to bury.
Murphy answered the door with a wriggling golden retriever puppy held against his chest. For a second, Hillary forgot how to breathe.
“Hey,” he said, surprise flickering across his face. “Uh—do you want to come in?”
“Yeah,” she managed.
He stepped aside and she walked into the condo.
This was the first time she’d been here. All of their summer fun had been spent at her place. She’d expected a bare-bones bachelor pad, maybe sports gear tossed around, video game controllers on the floor. Instead, it was neat. Warm. Lived in.
The puppy wriggled free, padded over, and licked her hand. Hillary let out an involuntary laugh—the first one all day—and scratched behind his ears.
“Finn likes you,” Murphy said, soft, watching her.
Her chest tightened. “He’s adorable.”
“What do you need?” Murphy asked after a beat, his voice cautious but kind.
She straightened, forcing herself back into work mode. “I wanted to talk about the situation. And check in on you.”
“I’m okay. I just don’t want to make more work for you guys. If it weren’t for this ‘good boy’ image, it would be nothing but a blip.”
She blinked, startled by how steady he sounded, and how much calmer than she felt. “You’re taking this better than I am,” she admitted.
He shrugged. “I don’t mind laying low. I’m not here for media spots. I’m here to play hockey. As long as it’s not hurting the team or my deals, I’d rather just let it blow over.”
“You should probably talk to your agent. Your band deals that aren’t through the team might be upset.”
“I already talked to him,” he said with a small nod.
She nodded, throat tight. “Okay. Then that’s the plan.”
Why was she even here? This was not helping anything. Yet, for some strange reason, her feet stayed there, cemented to the ground. She needed to get out of here.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I came.” She moved toward the door, desperate for air.
“Hillary, wait.”
Her hand froze on the knob. She turned.
“You and me,” he said quietly. “Are we good?”
The look in his eyes, hopeful and pleading, knocked the wind out of her. She could only nod, forcing the words past her throat. “We’re good. Goodnight, Murphy.”
She left with that crushing tightness still in her chest. She hated this.