Chapter 58 Murphy #2
“What can I say, rookie? You’re a star.” Her lips curved into something warm, proud.
Before he could reply, his dad poked his head into the hall. “What’s all this?”
Murphy scrambled for words, but it didn’t matter because Patrick had caught wind. From inside the room came his brother’s voice, loud and insistent: “Murph! The cover! You have to do it!”
And just like that, the entire family was buzzing. Maddie squealed, his mom laughed through her exhaustion, and Patrick beamed from the hospital bed like Murphy had already scored the Cup-winning goal.
Patrick jabbed a finger toward him, mock stern. “But you’d better get back to practice. No slacking. You can’t be on the cover unless you get the Cup.”
For a moment, even with the machines beeping and the hospital air sharp in his lungs, it felt like hope.
The doctor finished his rounds with a calm smile. “If Patrick remains stable, he can go home in two days.”
Relief rippled through the room like a wave. Murphy squeezed his brother’s shoulder, and Patrick grinned, still pale but clearly pleased with himself. Maddie clapped, and his dad exhaled so loudly it drew a laugh from their mom.
That same mom turned her gaze on Murphy, her tone gentle but firm. “See? He’s on the mend. You’ve done what you came to do, sweetheart. Now you need to go back home.”
Murphy’s chest tightened. “I don’t want to leave him.”
“You’re not leaving him,” she corrected softly, brushing a hand over his hair like she had when he was little. “You’re going back to do your job. The job he told you to get back to.” She tilted her head toward Patrick, who raised his controller like a fist pump.
“Go win the Cup, Murph,” Patrick chimed in with a tired grin.
The ache in Murphy’s chest eased, just a little, as he met his brother’s determined eyes. Hillary slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze, steady and sure.
He nodded. “Okay. I’ll go back.”
But the words in his head weren’t about hockey or the Cup, they were about family, and about the woman beside him who hadn’t hesitated to stand in these hospital halls with him.
The tires hummed steadily against the pavement, the only sound in the quiet night.
The highway stretched out endlessly in front of them, flanked by dark trees and the occasional wash of headlights from a passing car.
Streetlamps cast fleeting pools of gold across Murphy’s face, sharp lines softening as they flickered past.
The air smelled faintly of coffee from the cups Hillary had picked up at the last gas station, still resting in the cup holder between them. Outside, the sky was clear, stars scattered in pinprick light, and the dashboard glowed pale blue across her hands folded in her lap.
Neither of them spoke for a long while. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, but it was heavy.
Every so often, Murphy’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel, like he was wrestling with something inside himself.
Hillary kept sneaking glances at him: the furrow between his brows, the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his shoulders looked so broad and solid even slouched in exhaustion.
He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, sighing as the road signs started counting down toward Glendale. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this,” he said finally, his voice low, almost lost to the hum of the engine.
She turned her head, watching him in the muted glow. “Say what?”
He glanced at her quickly, then back to the road. “That I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain what it meant, having you there. At the hospital. With my family. It’s not just that you came, it’s . . . ” He trailed off, his throat working. “You just . . . belonged. Like you’d always been there.”
Her breath caught, and she blinked hard, the dashboard light blurring.
Murphy kept going, voice steadier now. “When Patrick took that turn, my first thought wasn’t hockey, or the team, or anything else.
It was how fast can I get back? I didn’t expect you to come with me, but you did.
Without even hesitating.” He shook his head a little, as if still stunned.
“Thank you. I’ll never forget that, Hillary. ”
Her hand slid across the console, lacing through his. “You don’t have to thank me,” she whispered. “There’s nowhere else I would’ve been.”
For the rest of the drive, he let that truth sit between them, warm and steady, a quiet promise in the dark.
Later that night, Murphy collapsed onto the couch, Finn curling immediately into the crook of his side. Hillary tucked herself against him, legs draped over his lap, her hand absently stroking the golden retriever’s fur as they both melted into the quiet.
The TV hummed low in the background, some late-night replay of highlights, but neither of them was really watching. Murphy’s head rested against the back of the couch, his eyes fixed on her instead.
“So,” he said finally, his voice low and thoughtful, “We’re sitting down with that blogger Sasha trusts tomorrow. What should I even say?”
Hillary tilted her head toward him, studying the worry that lingered in the line of his mouth. “Just be honest,” she said softly. “That’s what people love about you. You don’t have to be anything but yourself.”
He nodded slowly, but didn’t look convinced. His thumb rubbed absently over Finn’s silky ear.
Her chest swelled at the quiet strength in his words. She reached up and smoothed her fingers over his jaw, smiling at him with that mix of fondness and ache only he could bring out in her. “I trust you, Rookie.”
That earned her the grin she loved, the one that always made her feel like sunshine had cracked through clouds. He leaned in and kissed her, soft and sure, Finn snuffling and sighing between them as if settling the moment.
For the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel like something to fear. It felt like something they might actually get to build together.