Chapter 43 Murphy
MURPHY
Murphy leaned against the wall near the rink doors. His brother was still in the locker room, taking his time, like always.
“Murph,” his mom said softly, stepping closer. Her eyes—kind, sharp in a way only moms could manage—searched his face. “Everything okay in Glendale?”
He let out a long, hard sigh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, begging to spill out. About Hillary. About the scrutiny bearing down on him. About how nothing felt steady anymore.
But he couldn’t do that. Not here. Not when his mom had enough to worry about with Patrick.
“Yeah,” he said finally, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “Everything’s fine.”
Murphy shifted his weight, glancing at the exit doors.
“You’ve gotta lie better than that, Murphy,” his mom said suddenly, her tone cutting through his thoughts. She set Patrick’s gear bag down and leveled him with the kind of look that stripped him bare. “I know when something’s bothering you.”
Murphy forced a smile, shaking his head. “You always do. Always could tell me what’s wrong.”
She crossed her arms, waiting.
He exhaled slowly. “It’s not nothing. But it’s also . . . it’s a problem there’s no real way to fix.”
“Try me,” she said softly. “Talk to me. We can figure it out.”
Murphy rubbed the back of his neck, feeling that old ache push through the cracks he’d been trying to seal. Finally, the words tumbled out, low and rough.
“There’s this woman. And the woman wants nothing to do with me. So . . . no. There’s no fix.”
His mom blinked, then shook her head, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How can that be? Murphy, you are the stuff dreams are made of. And I’m not just saying that because you’re a handsome professional athlete.”
A laugh caught in his throat, bitter around the edges.
She stepped closer, her voice firm. “I’m saying that because you are a kind, good man. The kind who makes people feel safe. The kind who shows up.”
Murphy bit his lip and looked away, blinking fast against the burn in his eyes. Her words should have felt like comfort. Instead, they only sharpened the ache.
Before she could press further, someone called her name from across the rink. She stood, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”
Murphy nodded, scooping up Patrick’s duffel bag to carry it out to the van.
The cold air outside was sharp, bracing, welcome. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. The moment he’d seen Hillary earlier fury had flared, but underneath it was something worse. Hurt.
He’d told her this was private. Not for PR. Not for cameras. Just his brother. Just his family. But Hillary hadn’t respected that.
The cold air bit at Murphy’s cheeks as he hefted Patrick’s bag over his shoulder and carried it toward the truck. Every breath of frosty Boston air grounded him, pulling him out of his own head.
The longer he thought about it, the more that ache in his chest burned.
Why didn’t she get it? Why didn’t she respect what mattered to him?
His thoughts, his feelings, they never seemed to be what she cared about.
He wanted to hate her for it. He should hate her for it.
But he couldn’t. Not when just the sight of her had stolen his breath.
The rink doors clattered open, and his family spilled out into the night. Patrick’s laughter rang clear across the parking lot, Maddie rolled her eyes at their dad, and his mom tugged her coat tighter as she smiled at them all.
“What do you all say to a round of cheeseburgers at Vic’s Diner?” his dad asked, clapping his hands together like it was already settled.
“Yeah!” Patrick cheered, pumping his fist in the air.
Maddie smirked. “Shocking. Patrick wants food.”
Murphy laughed despite himself, shifting the bag higher on his shoulder. “I’m in.”
Because this—this warmth, this chaos, this love—was what grounded him. And for tonight, he’d soak it all in before heading back to New York, back to the noise, back to everything else.
The diner buzzed with laughter and clatter.
Half the Special Olympics team had apparently decided on Vic’s, too.
Patrick was already deep into a pinball battle, his cheers echoing off the metal machines.
Their dad leaned in, coaching like it was a playoff game.
Their sister sat nearby with a milkshake, pretending not to be impressed.
Murphy sat back in the booth, burger in front of him, watching them. He’d missed this. The normal. The ease.
His mom slid into the seat across from him, folding her hands on the table. “Why isn’t the reigning pinball champion defending his title?”
Murphy tried for a grin. “Figured I’d let Patrick bask in the glory. Don’t want to hog the spotlight.”
Her eyes narrowed the way only a mother could. “Nice try, but I know you, Murphy James. You’ve been carrying something heavy since we left the rink.”
The air between them thickened. He stared at his untouched burger, then back at his mom. She always had that uncanny ability to cut right through him.
“I’m good,” he said at first, too quickly. Then he exhaled. “Just. . . trying to figure some stuff out.”
Her hand reached across, warm and grounding on his.
His mom gave his hand a squeeze, not pressing, just letting him know she was there.
Her smile softened as she folded her hands on the table and looked at him the way only moms could, like she saw every layer he tried to bury.
“Murph,” she said quietly, “there’s something I should’ve apologized for a long time ago.”
He frowned. “What on earth would you need to apologize for?”
“I know that smile of yours,” she said, cutting him off gently. “The happy-go-lucky, nothing’s-wrong grin you give the world. I’ve seen it since you were little. And I know it’s not always real.”
He huffed a breath, caught between defensiveness and exhaustion. “Mom . . . ”
“I leaned on you too much,” she pressed on. “When Patrick was sick, when your dad was working overtime, when I didn’t know if we’d get through the week, I leaned on you. You were the oldest, and you carried so much for us. Maybe too much.”
Murphy swallowed hard, his throat tight. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he was fine, that he loved stepping up. But the lump in his chest made the words stick.
“You deserve to be happy, Murph,” she whispered, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “Not just the kind of happy you show everyone else. Real happy. The kind that fills you up when no one’s watching.”
He bit his lip and looked away, blinking fast at the rain streaking down the diner window. He couldn’t say it out loud, that he’d found that kind of happiness, once, only to have it ripped away because Hillary didn’t believe she could give it to him.
His mom gave his hand one last squeeze before sliding out of the booth, heading back toward the pinball machines. “Think about it,” she said over her shoulder.
And Murphy sat there, burger cold, heart heavy, wondering if maybe he was doomed to keep chasing a happiness that never wanted him back.
Murphy pulled into his condo garage long after the lights of Boston faded in the rearview. The quiet pressed in around him as he rode the elevator up, the lingering warmth of his family dinner already slipping away.
When he opened his door, Finn came barreling toward him, floppy ears bouncing, little paws skidding across the hardwood. Murphy crouched down, and the golden pup launched into his arms, licking his face with pure, unfiltered joy.
Murphy laughed—a deep, unguarded sound he hadn’t felt in days—as he buried his face in the dog’s fur. God, he needed this. The unconditional love, the steadiness, the reminder that not everything in his life was complicated or spiraling out of control.
He carried Finn to the couch and collapsed into the cushions. Finn curled up against his chest like he’d been waiting all day just to be here. Murphy’s heart eased, the sharp ache of Hillary’s absence softening, even just for a moment.
His mom’s words echoed in the back of his mind.
Maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn’t the golden retriever everyone thought: always happy, always uncomplicated. He was more.
He kissed the top of Finn’s head and let the quiet settle in.
Maybe it was time he started acting like it.