Chapter 42 Hillary
HILLARY
The cold air of the rink hit her the second she stepped inside, sharp and biting, familiar in a way that settled into her bones.
Hillary tugged her coat tighter around her and forced her steps to be steady.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. She should have been back in New York, answering emails, doing literally anything else, but here she was.
She told herself it was about work. About optics. Even though she would never use the Special Olympics and Murphy’s family as optics, she just needed a reason to be here. That was all. She just needed to observe, maybe get a sense of what was really going on.
But if she was honest with herself, the truth was messier. She wasn’t okay. Not even close. She hadn’t been this off-balance in years. Hillary Lawson was supposed to have her shit together—always—and yet the guilt of what she’d done to Murphy ate at her every time she closed her eyes.
Her phone buzzed in her bag, a cheerful ping that felt jarringly out of place. Sydney.
Sydney - Hey, haven’t heard from you in a bit. You good?
Hillary typed back a quick lie.
Hillary - Fine. We’ll get dinner when I’m home
She shoved her phone deep into her purse before she could change her mind.
She scanned the lobby, noting the scuffed floors and the faded posters of teams long past. Then she made her way toward the stands, the sound of laughter and the scrape of skates on ice growing louder with every step.
And there he was.
Murphy. Out on the ice, grinning wide as he bent low to high-five a little boy before helping him adjust his helmet.
Her chest tightened, that familiar ache sliding into place.
He looked at home here, effortless, radiant in a way that had nothing to do with the spotlight and everything to do with who he was at his core.
God, she was in trouble.
She slipped into the back row of the bleachers, folding her coat around her like armor as the first group of skaters glided out. The crowd clapped for the figure skaters twirling through their routines. Hillary clapped politely, but her eyes kept straying.
To him.
When the open skate was over, Murphy sat a few rows down, flanked by two older people who had to be his parents.
His mother leaned in close, saying something that made him laugh, while his father gave him a solid, affectionate clap on the shoulder.
Warmth radiated from them, the kind of warmth you couldn’t fake.
The kind you carried in your bones because it had always been there.
Then a teenage girl with Murphy’s same brown hair rolled her eyes in a way that screamed little sister. Murphy grinned, nudging her back until she smacked his bicep with a laugh. He only pulled her in tighter, ignoring her protests until she melted against him in a hug.
The sight hit Hillary harder than she expected.
The air in her chest turned sharp, almost painful, as she sat frozen in the bleachers.
The difference between his world and hers stretched wide and unforgiving.
His life was stitched together with love, teasing, and safety nets.
Hers had been cold, brittle, an endless performance where affection was rationed and approval was conditional.
Watching Murphy with his family felt like standing on the outside of a warm, glowing house in the dead of winter, nose pressed to the glass, knowing she’d never be invited inside.
As she watched, it only solidified her resolve.
She was making the right decision.
She would never deserve something this pure. Murphy did. Of course, he did. She’d done nothing but hurt him. She saw it in his eyes every time she pushed him away, every time she pretended the thing between them was nothing.
The players were called out, and the first puck dropped.
The stands erupted, and the sound reverberated through the small rink like a thunderclap.
The game wasn’t professional, wasn’t polished, but the joy on the ice was contagious.
Athletes skated with grins, their families cheering louder than any NHL crowd.
Hillary felt her throat tighten.
This—this was what it looked like when sports gave back. When the game wasn’t about contracts and endorsements and curated images but about joy. Community. Belonging.
She hugged her coat tighter, her heart heavy but her brain already shifting into gear.
While she would never suggest Murphy share more of his personal life than he wanted, maybe this was something the organization could lean into.
A partnership with the Special Olympics in Glendale.
The way these kids lit up, the way their families lit up, the joy on the ice and in the crowd was worth it.
If she couldn’t have Murphy, maybe she could at least honor the light he brought to the world.
As the game came to an end, Hillary tried to slip out unnoticed. She ducked into the bathroom, gave herself a moment to breathe, and told herself she’d done what she came to do. She had seen Murphy, seen the joy. That was enough.
But when she stepped back into the hallway, she collided with someone solid.
A very tall someone.
She turned and froze.
Murphy.
For half a heartbeat, his face softened into a smile, that familiar warmth sparking in his hazel eyes. Then it vanished, his brow furrowing, his mouth tightening.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp, laced with an edge she’d never heard from him before.
“I just wanted to see—” she stammered.
“I told you this was private. Not for PR.”
Her heart slammed in her chest, shame pricking hot in her throat. She opened her mouth to explain, but before she could, a blur of hockey gear barreled into Murphy.
“Murphy!” the man shouted, nearly knocking him off balance.
“Hey buddy! That was a great game.” Murphy’s scowl vanished in an instant, replaced with open delight. “You got a goal.”
“I did! A great goal!” The young man beamed, his voice sing-songy, his grin impossibly wide.
Hillary blinked, noticing the resemblance. The same hazel eyes and sandy brown hair. The same smile, unguarded and bright. Murphy’s brother.
The young man turned to her suddenly, curiosity shining. “Is this your girlfriend?”
Her heart lodged in her throat.
Murphy’s hand flexed at his side, his gaze darting between her and his brother. The question hung there, heavy and impossible, waiting for someone—anyone—to answer.
Before Murphy could answer, the rest of his family swept in like a tide.
His parents wrapped Patrick in proud hugs, his sister teasing him about the goal until he tugged her into a headlock, laughing. The warmth radiating from them was overwhelming, like standing too close to the sun. Too bright. Too much.
Then came the inevitable question: “And who’s this?”
Murphy’s smile was polite, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “She works for the Magic,” he said smoothly. Luck was on her side, no one pressed for more.
Introductions circled around, names and faces blurring together in the rush of affection she didn’t belong in. Until—
“And this is Patrick,” Murphy said, his voice softening as though the whole world slowed for his brother.
“I'm the better brother," he said leaning in. "I work in hockey too.”
Hillary couldn’t help her smile. “Is that right?”
Patrick beamed. “Yeah! I work in the concessions. People need their pretzels.”
“They sure do.”
The family folded back into their rhythm, buzzing around her, drawing Murphy in. Hillary watched for a beat, her heart twisting tighter with every moment. This was everything she wasn’t. Everything she could never be.
She bowed out quietly, slipping toward the exit. No one stopped her.
By the time she slid into the backseat of her Uber, she half-expected to see Murphy jogging after her, calling her name.
But he didn’t.
She glanced back once, just in case. He wasn’t there.
As the car pulled away toward the airport, the weight of it all sank into her chest. Coming here was a mistake.