Chapter 52 Murphy
MURPHY
Murphy padded into the kitchen, still loose-limbed and easy after a night of actual sleep. Not the restless kind he’d had too many nights this season, but the kind where he’d fallen asleep with Hillary curled into his side and Finn snoring at their feet.
He blended a smoothie on autopilot: protein powder, banana, blueberries, peanut butter, his usual.
While it whirred, he grinned at the way last night kept replaying in his head.
Not the fireworks of the equipment room, not the mess of emotions and confessions.
Just her laugh muffled against his chest when Finn tried to wedge between them in bed.
Just her lips brushing his shoulder before she drifted off.
After Finn was walked and dropped off with the woman downstairs who doted on him whenever the team was away, Murphy met Hillary in the lobby. She looked,well, like herself. Professional coat, hair pinned back, already in work mode. But when she smiled at him, it was softer, unguarded, just for him.
They walked out together, the cold air nipping at their cheeks as they headed to the corner café. It was ordinary. Normal. The kind of moment couples probably had all the time. But to Murphy, it felt almost dizzying in its simplicity.
She ordered her vanilla latte with the extra shot. He got his usual black coffee to go with his smoothie. When their drinks came, he slid hers across the table with a grin.
“Guess this means I can’t leave one on your desk every morning anymore,” he teased.
She arched a brow over her cup. “Why not?”
“Because this is better,” he said, simple and certain. Sharing a table, not sneaking around. Starting the day with her instead of hoping she’d notice his note.
Her eyes softened, and that tiny smile tugged at her mouth again. He didn’t even need the caffeine. That smile was enough to wake him up.
The walk from the café to the arena was short, but it felt like the longest stretch of the morning.
Hillary held her coffee close, the steam fogging up the crisp air, her eyes set straight ahead.
Murphy shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket, his brain humming with the same thought he’d had for weeks.
He wanted to tell people. He wanted her on his arm without hesitation, wanted everyone to know that Hillary Lawson was his person.
But when they reached the glass doors of the arena, and she swiped her badge, he caught the flicker in her expression. Her jaw tightened. Her shoulders went stiff. She was nervous.
Inside the quiet hallway, he stopped her before she ducked toward her office. “Hey.” His voice was softer than he intended, but it pulled her gaze back to him.
“I know we need to talk about telling people,” he said. “And I want that. I want it more than anything. But . . . ” He exhaled, his lips twisting. “If you’re not ready, we can hold off. I don’t want you feeling cornered.”
Her eyes softened, but the nerves didn’t disappear. She shook her head. “It’s not about hiding you, Murphy. Please don’t think that. You’re . . . you’re the best part of my life. My hesitation isn’t about you. It’s about me. About how much of myself I’m willing to share with the world.”
He took that in. Slowly, carefully. And though it wasn’t the answer he wanted, it was the truth, and she was giving it to him straight.
He reached out, brushing his fingers along hers until she gave in and laced them together. “Okay,” he said, steady. “I get it. I don’t love it, but I get it. Just promise me one thing.”
Her brows lifted. “What’s that?”
“That when you’re ready, you won’t hold back.” His voice was quiet but certain. “Because I’m not going anywhere. And I don’t want to feel like I’m some secret piece of your life.”
For the first time all morning, her shoulders eased. She squeezed his hand. “Deal.”
They let go before anyone could round the corner, but the warmth lingered in Murphy’s chest as he headed toward the locker room. It wasn’t the reveal he’d been dreaming of, but it was enough for now.
Murphy walked her all the way to her office, their steps slow even though the hallway was already filling with staff.
When they reached her door, she gave him a quick smile, the kind that looked small on the surface but still managed to gut him.
He wanted to lean in, kiss her right there in the middle of the arena, but instead, he settled for brushing his knuckles along hers before stepping back.
“See you after,” she murmured.
“Count on it,” he said, and turned toward the locker room before he could give in to temptation.
He made his way to the ice floating on a cloud.
They clinched their playoff seat last game.
The hard part was done, at least on paper.
Now came the waiting game, watching the standings shake out to see who they’d line up against. Murphy could feel the energy buzzing through the room, that mix of relief and adrenaline only a playoff berth could bring.
As he laced up his skates, he let himself smile. This—this banter, this anticipation, this team—was what grounded him. Whatever storm was brewing outside these walls, at least on the ice, he knew exactly who he was and what he could do.
The chill of the rink hit him as soon as he stepped out, blades gliding on the fresh ice. Morning skate had always been his reset button, but today it felt even better.
Connor slid up beside him, stick tapping his own in greeting. “Ready to roll, Murph?”
“Always.”
And then Wes joined them, slotting into their line like he’d been born there.
The three of them clicked in a way that felt almost unfair.
With Conner’s calm precision, Wes’s fire, and Murphy’s drive, they wove together like a perfect thread.
Their passes stuck. Their timing was sharp.
When Murphy dug in for a breakaway, he didn’t have to force it, didn’t have to punish his body into moving faster.
It came easily, naturally, and the puck hit the back of the net with a sound that made him grin.
“Hot hands,” Wes whooped, skating up to fist-bump him.
“Guess I’m just carrying you two,” Murphy teased, earning an eye roll from Connor.
The drills rolled on, each one smoother than the last. No panic, no overthinking. Just hockey. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t overcompensating, wasn’t trying to drown out feelings he couldn’t control. He was just Murphy, on the ice, with his line. And it felt damn good.
When Coach blew the whistle, calling them in to regroup, Murphy leaned on his stick and sucked in a breath that tasted like relief. Yeah. This—this was where he belonged. And for once, he believed he could have both, this game and the woman waiting for him off the ice.
The locker room buzzed with energy, half the guys chirping each other, half still sweating from the skate. Connor and Wes were at it about who’d “carried the drill,” and Cash was already talking about post-practice burritos. Murphy tuned it all out.
He sat back in front of his stall, towel slung over his shoulders, and thumbed open his phone. His teammates’ banter faded into background noise.
Boss. That was still what her contact read. He couldn’t bring himself to change it yet, even if things between them were different now. More real.
He pulled up her thread and stared at the photo he’d snapped last night: Hillary asleep on his chest, her hand curled against his shirt, Finn snoring at their feet while some half-finished movie flickered in the background. Peaceful. Vulnerable. His.
His chest squeezed.
Before he could second-guess it, he typed out three words.
Thinking of you.
He hit send, locked the screen, and tucked his phone away. The noise of the locker room rushed back in around him, but he carried the quiet weight of that message with him, a tether that stretched across the arena and right to her.
It was a good day, a great day even, and it was only getting better as he prepared dinner.
The scent of frying chicken and garlic filled the condo, the pan sizzling under Murphy’s watchful eye. Hillary was at the counter uncorking wine, her hair catching the light, while from the living room came the rattling thunks of Finn’s treat dispenser as he nosed it across the floor.
Murphy grinned at the chaos until his phone buzzed on the counter. He wiped his hands and picked up.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Murphy.” Her voice warmed instantly, full of affection. “How’s my favorite left winger?”
He chuckled. “I’m good. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to remind you Patrick should be heading home tomorrow. The doctors are optimistic. Everything is going as planned.”
Murphy froze. The pan popped behind him, but it felt far away. His grip tightened on the phone. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
“I know how you worry, but I hadn’t heard from you since the surgery,” she said lightly, though a mother’s radar always caught more than you wanted.
“Yeah, no—I just—slipped my mind for a second. Been busy.”
There was a pause. “Murphy. You’re allowed to have a life, honey. Patrick knows you love him. We all do.”
“Still feels wrong,” he admitted. “Like I should’ve been checking in more.”
“You’ve already done more than enough. You sent money for the travel, for the bills. You FaceTime him every week. You’ll be there as soon as the schedule lets you.” Her voice softened to a whisper. “Don’t wear yourself out on top of everything else.”
His throat tightened. “I just don’t want to let him down.”
“You never could.”
Finn barked in the other room as his toy rolled under the couch. Hillary bent to fish it out, tossing the retriever a fond look, but her eyes flicked to Murphy.
He hung up, set the phone down, and just stood there, towel clenched in his fist. The weight of guilt pressed hard, heavier than the skillet in front of him.
“You okay?” Hillary’s voice was careful, as if she knew he wasn’t.
Murphy let out a rough breath. “Patrick’s still in the hospital. And I . . . I almost forgot. What kind of brother does that make me?”
Hillary set the wine bottle down and crossed to him, her bare feet padded softly against the kitchen tile. He was still staring at the stove, jaw tight, guilt weighing heavily on his broad shoulders.
“Murphy.” Her voice was gentle, but it pulled his gaze to hers. She reached up, brushing her fingers over his arm before sliding them down to take his hand. “You didn’t forget because you don’t care. You forgot because you’ve been carrying too much.”
He shook his head. “That’s not an excuse.”
“No,” she said, holding his eyes steady, “but it’s the truth.
You’ve been pushing yourself on the ice, dealing with all the media nonsense, holding your family up from miles away, and—” she gave a soft, almost rueful smile “—putting up with me and my walls. That’s not nothing, Murphy.
That’s more than anyone should be asked to juggle. ”
His throat worked, but no words came.
“You are a good brother,” she pressed on. “Patrick knows that. Your parents know that. I’ve seen how you light up when you talk about them, how you’d do anything to make their lives easier. You’ve never let them down. Not once.”
He let out a rough laugh, disbelieving, but she squeezed his hand tighter.
“Listen to me,” she whispered. “The fact that you feel this guilty for a single lapse just proves how much you love him. That’s who you are, Murphy. Not someone who forgets, someone who always shows up. And you will be there for him, like you always are.”
The words cracked something in him, enough that he bent his head until their foreheads touched. Her free hand slid up his back, grounding him, pulling him in close.
“You don’t have to carry this alone,” she murmured. “Not anymore.”
He exhaled fully, letting some of the tension bleed out. Hillary’s words had cut through the noise in his head and left only the sharp truth.
Before he could think better of it, Murphy dipped his head and kissed her.
It started soft, gratitude and need rolled into one, but the second she sighed into him, his control snapped.
He deepened the kiss, one hand sliding up her back, the other curling in her hair, pulling her flush against him.
Everything he’d been holding in—the fear, the pressure, the ache of almost losing her—spilled out in that kiss.
Hillary clung to him, kissing back just as desperately, her hands fisting in his T-shirt. The kitchen, the dinner, the world outside, all of it disappeared.
Until—
A sharp sizzle made him jerk his head back.
“Shit,” he muttered, spinning toward the stove just in time to yank the pan off the burner before the chicken parm could go from golden to charred.
Hillary laughed, breathless and flushed, as she leaned against the counter, still catching her breath. “Guess I should be flattered. I can literally distract you from food.”
He set the pan down and turned back to her, grinning, chest heaving. “You have no idea.”