Chapter 57 Hillary
HILLARY
The house was small, tucked between two others on a quiet Boston street. A tidy row of red brick with shutters painted the same faded blue as the porch swing creaking in the night breeze. It was modest. Ordinary.
And it stopped Hillary cold.
Because, for all its simplicity, it was warm in a way the cold, stately manor she grew up in never had been. That house had gleamed with polished marble, echoed with silence, and hummed with rules. Murphy’s house . . . this house . . . hummed with life.
She followed him and Maddie inside, clutching the bag of tacos.
The entryway was narrow, but the walls were covered with framed photographs.
School pictures. Hockey trophies. A faded shot of Murphy in braces with his arm slung protectively around Patrick.
A family that wore its love out in the open instead of burying it beneath appearances.
The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something sweet that must have come from the kitchen earlier. Maddie kicked her shoes off by the door without hesitation, her bag dropping with a thud before she bounded toward the couch.
Murphy set the tacos down on the dining table and looked at Hillary like he was waiting for her to pass some kind of judgment. Instead, she smiled softly, brushing her hand over the corner of a family photo before she turned back to him.
“It’s perfect,” she whispered, meaning it more than she’d ever meant anything.
Because it was.
Murphy slid the foil-wrapped tacos across the table, one for Maddie, one for Hillary, and one for himself. The warmth of the food filled the small kitchen, the scent of seasoned chicken and melted cheese settling around them.
Just as Hillary unwrapped hers, her phone buzzed on the table. The sound felt louder than it should have in the quiet of Murphy’s childhood home.
She didn’t even want to look. She already knew.
With a steadying breath, she flipped it over. Another email notification. Another headline. Another reminder of the grainy photo that had followed them here, miles away from Glendale.
Her chest tightened. She should be on her laptop, on calls, spinning this before it spiraled further. Being here, eating tacos with Murphy and Maddie, was the opposite of what she should be doing.
But then Murphy bumped her knee under the table, his easy grin tugging her right back into the moment. “Boss, you'd better grab your taco before Maddie eats it. Midnight chicken nachos champion, remember?”
Maddie smirked, reaching for hers with exaggerated menace, and Hillary laughed despite herself.
The mess outside this house could wait, at least for tonight.
Hillary reached for a taco, the foil still hot against her fingers, when her phone buzzed again. She glanced down. A message from Sasha.
Sasha - 3 options, No Comment, but that could feed the fire. Lie low, but with play off looming, that seems hard. The last option you guys can think about is an interview, claiming it and calling it a day.
Her stomach knotted. None of it sounded good, but they’d have to decide. She thumbed back a quick reply.
Hillary - I’ll talk to Murphy.
Then she set the phone down and took a bite, the taste of seasoned meat and cilantro filling her mouth.
It buzzed again before she could even swallow.
Sasha - How’s he holding up?
Hillary’s gaze flicked across the table. Murphy had just stolen a chip loaded with cheese off Maddie’s plate. He winked at his sister when she protested, then stuffed it into his mouth with all the satisfaction of a man reclaiming his childhood crown.
Hillary - He’s holding in there
“What’s up?” Murphy asked, noticing her phone in her hand.
She forced a smile. “Sasha was just checking in on you.”
He hummed and gave her one of those heart-melting grins before leaning back with his plate. “Tell her I’m fine,” he said, grabbing a nacho the size of his hand and biting down with gusto.
And somehow, for the first time all day, Hillary almost believed it.
After their taco feast, the house slowly quieted.
Hillary padded down the hallway, toothbrush and pajamas in hand, and stepped into Murphy’s room.
It was smaller than she expected, nothing like the luxury condo in Glendale.
A twin bed pushed against the wall, the Bruins pennant still thumbtacked above the headboard, stacks of old hockey magazines and trophies lined up on a shelf.
She smiled faintly, running her hand over a worn desk scarred with pen grooves and stickers half-peeled away. It was lived-in, familiar, and so very Murphy.
The shower hissed from the bathroom, steam curling under the door. She’d barely had a moment to sit on the edge of the bed when a soft knock came.
“Hillary?” Maddie’s voice.
She opened the door to find Murphy’s little sister leaning against the frame, hair in a messy braid, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame. She looked hesitant, but curious.
“Hey, Maddie.” Hillary smiled, stepping back so she could come in.
Maddie perched on the desk chair, knees pulled up, eyes darting between Hillary and the door where her brother was showering. “So . . . you’re the girlfriend?”
Heat rose in Hillary’s cheeks. “I am,” she said lightly.
Maddie tilted her head, studying her the way only a teenage girl could with a sharp, unfiltered gaze. “You’re . . . older than I expected.”
Hillary huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”
“I don’t mean it bad,” Maddie rushed to add. “It’s just—Murphy’s always been . . . I don’t know. Everyone loves him. He takes care of all of us. I just want someone to . . . you know . . . take care of him.”
The words pierced deep. Hillary swallowed, forcing her voice steady. “I want that too, Maddie. I care about him, a lot. More than I thought I could.”
Maddie’s suspicion softened, just a little. She picked at the drawstring of her hoodie. “Okay. Good. He deserves someone who gets it. Who gets him.”
From the bathroom, the shower cut off. Hillary glanced toward the door, then back at Maddie. “I’m trying. I promise.”
Maddie gave her a small smile, one that carried more approval than Hillary expected. “That’s all I wanted to know.” She slid off the chair, padding back toward the hall.
Murphy padded into the room, hair still damp, low-hung sweatpants clinging in a way that made her pulse jump.
Hillary didn’t just see the broad chest or the cut of his abs.
She saw him. The man who got her coffee every morning, who played with kids at family skate, who’d carried the weight of his family for years without complaint.
He cocked his head, reading her like he always did. “What’s up?”
Her throat tightened, the words clawing their way out before she could stop them. “I really fucking love you.”
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then a slow, unstoppable smile spread across his face. He shut the door behind him with a quiet click, eyes never leaving hers.
“Right back atcha, Boss.”
And then he pounced, laughing as he pulled her onto the bed, her gasp muffled by his kiss.
The mattress dipped under their weight, her hands tangling in his still-damp hair as his body pressed against hers.
It wasn’t careful or restrained. It was a tumble of laughter and heat, of love that no longer had anywhere to hide.
At first, Hillary froze. The weight of his childhood home pressed in—the creak of old floorboards, the muffled hum of the heater down the hall. It felt…sacred, not like the place for this.
But then Murphy’s voice cut through, rough and low, his forehead pressed against hers. “Please,” he whispered. “I need this. I need you.”
Her heart clenched. She’d never heard him sound like that. He was open, vulnerable, stripped down to nothing but want and need. And God, she wanted it too.
“Okay,” she breathed, her voice trembling.
The relief in his eyes nearly undid her. His kiss came softer this time, slow and searching, every brush of his mouth telling her what words couldn’t. His hands moved carefully, reverently, sliding under her shirt as if he was learning her all over again.
She melted into him, fingers tracing the planes of his chest, the familiar heat sparking low in her belly. “Murphy,” she whispered, not sure if it was a prayer or a plea.
He eased her back against the mattress. His touch was gentle but sure, every sigh, every shiver, every way she fit perfectly against him.
It wasn’t hurried, not tonight. Every kiss lingered, and every caress lingered longer, until she was trembling beneath him. He held her gaze the whole time, as though needing her to see the truth in him. She wasn’t just his want, but his home.
After what seemed like a lifetime of kissing and exploring each other, he wrapped one of her legs around his waist and pushed in.
It was unhurried and achingly deep. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, his name falling from her lips.
And when she broke, when pleasure and love tangled so tightly she couldn’t tell them apart, he followed, his forehead pressed to hers, whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Afterward, he pulled her close, their bodies tangled under his old quilt, the smell of clean soap and him surrounding her.
“What do you think we should do about the pictures?” Hillary asked, her head wobbling like even she wasn’t sure of her own answer.
“I mean, you know best, I’m comfortable following your lead.”
“I get that, I do,” she said as she ran her hand through his soft hair. “But I want this to feel right for you, too.”
“Okay, talk to me,” he said, lying back on his pillow with his hands clasped behind his head. “What are you and Sasha cooking up?”
Hillary leaned over and draped her arm around his broad chest. “Sasha seems to think we have three options, one being to lie low, but basically do what we’ve been doing, but with the playoffs coming up, the media will be intense.
Second option of a strict no comment, but that always feeds the fire. ”
Murphy nodded as he absentmindedly ran his hand through her hair.
“Third option, we meet it head-on and do an interview. We deal with all the questions head-on, ya know, rip off the band aid.”
“How do you feel about that?”
She took a deep breath. “I hate it . . . but it is also our best option.”
Murphy didn’t hesitate. “We should come clean. Do the interview.”
She blinked, then nodded slowly. “I agree.”
His brow furrowed in surprise. “You do?”
“I wasn’t sure if you would want people to know.”
Hillary pushed herself up, turning to face him fully. The seriousness in her expression made his chest tighten. “Murphy, I’m in this. All the way in. If you want to do the interview, then so do I.”
For a second, he just stared. Then her grin broke through the weight of it all, and she tugged him down with her, pressing her mouth to his in a kiss that tasted like relief and love all at once.
The old twin bed creaked as they settled in. He lay on his side holding her back to his chest, nowhere near enough room between them, and neither of them minded.
It had been a whirlwind of a day from hospital halls, hard truths, midnight tacos, to emotions wound tight then released. But now, lying tangled together in the room that had shaped so much of who Murphy was, the world finally quieted.
Hillary let her head rest against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His arm curved protectively around her, holding her close as if he never meant to let go.
It felt too small, too messy, too much . . . and somehow perfect.