Chapter 54 Murphy
MURPHY
Murphy sat in the darkened video room, eyes on the screen, mind somewhere else. Coach paused a clip of their last game, breaking down a defensive rotation, but Murphy had to drag himself back into focus. His world had been so steady, so good these last few weeks, it was hard to lock in.
He shifted in his chair, notebook open but blank. Normally, this was his sweet spot—the details, the tweaks, the puzzle of hockey. Right now, though? His head was full of Hillary.
Their rhythm together had fallen into place faster than he ever imagined.
Mornings with coffee and stolen kisses. Evenings with Finn curled up at their feet.
Dinner together, sometimes at his place, sometimes hers, both of them cooking or laughing when something burned.
Every moment felt like it fit, like it was exactly where he was meant to be.
They had one more regular-season game before the playoffs started, and Murphy could feel that playoff electricity buzzing through the team. But it wasn’t panic, not this year. For once, he wasn’t trying to outrun the weight in his chest. He was anchored.
Finn. Hillary. Hockey. For the first time in a long time, everything felt good. Like he was in his sweet spot both on the ice and off it.
When they finally hit the ice, Murphy could feel the energy shift. Normally, practice was a place he could lose himself, but Conner’s jaw was tight, every stride sharp with purpose.
Murphy, on the other hand, was a mess. As he missed the second pass of the drill, his brow furrowed. He was playing sloppier than he had all year. He needed to find his focus.
“Come on, boys,” Wes called as they cycled through another rush, trying to keep things light. “We’ve got this. It’s practice, not game seven.”
“Tell that to the Cup,” Conner shot back, snapping his stick against the ice when a pass didn’t connect.
Murphy skated in close, trying to diffuse. Conner tended to get intense when it was time for the playoffs.
“Hey, man, we’re clicking. We’ll keep building, that’s all.”
But Conner wasn’t having it. He whirled on them, sweat dripping, eyes blazing. “You need to keep your head in it, Murph. Not with your new girlfriend.”
The words hung in the cold air, sharp as a slap. A couple of guys slowed their drills, eyes flicking toward them.
Murphy’s chest tightened. He wanted to bite back, to tell Conner to shut the hell up, but the sting of it cut deeper than he expected. Hillary. His happiness. Out here, in front of everyone.
Wes stepped between them with a low whistle. “Easy. We’re on the same team, remember?”
Conner grumbled but skated off, still simmering.
Murphy clenched his jaw, forced his legs to move, to keep skating. To prove Conner wrong. But inside, the words had lodged like a puck to the ribs, bruising and tender.
As soon as they were off the ice, Conner was on him. “Hey, Murph—” he started, breathless, tugging off his gloves. His face softened, regret plain in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that out there. I’m sorry, man.”
Murphy forced a nod, tugging at the tape on his stick. “It’s fine.” But it wasn’t. The damage was already done.
By the time they stepped into the locker room, the cat was out of the bag.
The locker room was buzzing as guys peeled off gear and towels snapped through the air.
“Alright, Murph,” one of them called, grinning like a shark. “Conner slipped up. Who’s the mystery girlfriend?”
“Yeah, spill it,” another chimed in. “We’re done guessing.”
Murphy tugged his pads off slowly, every eye on him. His first instinct was to laugh it off, keep it light, but something in his chest shifted. He was tired of hiding. Hillary deserved more than that. They deserved more than that.
He sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders back. “It’s Hillary.”
The room went still for a beat, the quiet broken almost instantly by whistles, shouts, and half-shocked laughter.
“No way.”
“You mean Boss Lady?”
“Man, you’re playing with fire!”
But beneath all the noise, Murphy caught Conner’s expression. He looked gutted, like he’d just dropped a puck in his own net.
Murphy gave him a faint, reassuring nod. This wasn’t on Conner anymore, this was on him.
“She’s amazing,” Murphy said simply, his voice steady even as his stomach churned. “So yeah. That’s where it’s at.”
The razzing picked back up, but this time it was different, less guessing, more incredulous teasing. A couple of guys clapped him on the back, a few cracked jokes about “dating the boss,” but Murphy stood firm.
Inside, though, he knew one thing for certain: he had to warn Hillary. Before this got anywhere beyond the locker room.
Murphy dug into his duffel, pulling out his phone with every intention of firing off a quick
Murphy - Hey, the cat’s out of the bag. Locker room knows about us. Was a matter of time.
Only his thumb froze.
Five missed calls from Mom.
One text from her, time-stamped just minutes ago.
Mom - Call me. It’s Patrick.
His chest tightened, all the air punched out of him at once. The locker room noise—the laughter, the banter, the showers running—blurred into static. His hand clenched around the phone, knuckles white, as panic coiled low in his stomach.
Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.
Murphy sat there on the bench, still half in his gear, the phone heavy in his hand. The locker room noise faded, but he couldn’t move. Couldn’t even breathe right. His thumb hovered over his mom’s message, the words It’s Patrick burning into him.
The room was almost empty when Conner’s voice cut through.
“Murph?”
Murphy blinked up, finding his teammate lingering by the stalls, a crease of worry pulling at his brow. Conner rubbed the back of his neck like he didn’t know how close to get.
“You’ve been sitting here forever, man. You okay?”
Murphy swallowed hard, shaking his head once, still staring down at the phone. He wanted to answer, but the words stuck in his throat.
Conner took a step closer, guilt still etched across his face from earlier. “Listen, I was a dick out there. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I’m sorry.”
Murphy let out a shaky breath, finally looking up. His eyes were raw, voice low.
“It’s not that. It’s . . . my mom. It’s Patrick.”
Conner’s face changed, all apologies giving way to pure concern. “What happened?”
Murphy’s throat bobbed. He didn’t know yet. He hadn’t called. Because calling made it real.
“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice breaking. “I don’t know yet.”
Murphy hit the call button. Conner sat down beside him, not crowding but not moving either, steady as a wall at his back.
His mom answered on the first ring.
“Murphy?” Her voice wobbled, tight and too fast.
“Mom,” he breathed. “What’s going on?”
“They—” She stopped, took a shaky breath, but he could hear it, the tears she was holding back. “They found some internal bleeding. He’s back in surgery now.”
Murphy closed his eyes, the world tilting under him. “Internal bleeding? How—how bad is it?”
“They don’t know yet.” She sniffed. “He’s gone through so much already.”
Murphy pressed a hand to his eyes, forcing the burn back. He wanted to be there. To hold her. To sit in that damn hospital waiting room and not be a million miles away while his brother was on a table.
“You shouldn’t be there alone,” he whispered.
“I’m not. Your dad’s here. Your sister’s here. We’re okay.” Her voice cracked, brave but breaking. “You just keep doing what you’re doing. Patrick’s proud of you. We all are.”
“Mom—” His throat closed. He wanted to tell her he’d drop everything, be on the next flight, anything. But the weight of the season, of everything, pressed down on his chest.
She seemed to know, like she always did. “Just pray for him, baby. That’s what he needs most.”
The line went quiet for a second. Murphy sat there, staring at the floor, feeling hollowed out and helpless. Conner stayed silent beside him, a solid presence.
“Okay,” Murphy finally managed, voice hoarse. “I love you, Mom.”
“We love you too.” And then she was gone.
Murphy sat frozen, phone still in his hand. Conner leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Murph,” he said quietly, “Talk to me.”
Murphy blew out a shaky breath. “They found internal bleeding. Patrick’s back in surgery. And I’m stuck here.”
Conner’s eyes softened. “Man . . . I’m so sorry.” He paused, giving Murphy space, then added, “You don’t have to do this alone. You’ve got people here. And maybe you don’t have to be here at all.”
Before Murphy could answer, the door at the end of the hall clicked open. Coach Wagner was passing by, his sharp eyes immediately locking on Murphy’s face, then the way Conner hovered beside him.
“Something up?”
Conner tilted his head toward Murphy. “Can we talk in your office, Coach?”
A few minutes later, they were behind closed doors. Wagner folded his arms, steady and direct. “What’s going on, Murphy?”
Murphy rubbed his temples, words grinding out. “My brother’s in surgery. Internal bleeding. My family’s in Boston. I should be there, but—” His throat locked. “The team. Playoffs. I don’t know what to do.”
The coach was quiet for a beat, then spoke evenly. “You’ve been giving everything you’ve got on the ice. No one doubts your commitment. But family comes first. Always.” He glanced at Conner, who nodded firmly.
“We’ve got one game left in the regular season,” Wagner continued. “It won’t change anything for the playoffs. If you want to fly home, we’ll cover it. Sit this game out. Be with your family.”
The words hit Murphy square in the chest. Relief and guilt tangled in equal measure. “Are you sure? I don’t want to let the guys down.”
“You won’t,” Conner cut in. “We’ve got you. Go. Be where you need to be.”
Murphy pressed a hand over his mouth, emotions raw and close. Finally, he nodded. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll do it.”
Coach leaned forward. “Good man. I’ll clear it with the front office. Go pack a bag.”
Murphy managed a rough thank you. For the first time since his mom’s call, he felt like he could breathe.