Chapter 60 Hillary
HILLARY
The season had been a blur of flights, hotel rooms, and PR nightmares, but also of grit and glory.
Round one: the team stormed through with a clean sweep, the kind of dominance that made the press drool.
Round two, the conference finals: seven games of agony and ecstasy, capped off by Murphy’s overtime winner that still replayed in her mind.
Beating Florida after what happened last year felt good.
And now this. Game seven of the finals. Everything.
Hillary smoothed her skirt and tried to steady her breathing in the press box, though her pulse was galloping. The arena hummed with nervous energy, twenty thousand people standing, their voices swelling as the national anthem began.
She forced herself to focus on the ice. The guys stood lined up at the blue line, backs straight, eyes locked ahead. Conner looked coiled tight, Wes calm as ever. And then her gaze landed on Murphy.
He stood tall, chin lifted, but she could read him better than anyone now. She saw the tiny rise of his chest as he drew in a breath, the flicker of his jaw as he clenched it. He looked every bit the golden boy for the cameras, but she knew the storm of nerves under the surface.
Her heart squeezed. He carried his family, his team, the weight of this city. And he still found time to bring her coffee every morning.
The anthem swelled, and Hillary blinked hard against tears. Whatever happened tonight, she knew one thing with terrifying certainty: she loved him.
Later in the first, the Jumbotron cut to the bench, larger than life.
Conner sat forward, elbows braced on his knees, his intensity practically vibrating through the screen.
Beside him, Wes leaned back, cool as ice, giving a small nod.
And then there was Murphy—jaw set, focused, but not intense like Conner.
He nodded once, too, calm, steady, grounding the energy between them.
The crowd roared at the shot of the three of them, chanting their line name, the noise shaking the rafters. Hillary’s stomach flipped.
End of the first period. Down by one.
Her rational, PR-trained brain reminded her that one goal was nothing. They had time, they had talent.
They all wanted this. Desperately. But with Conner, it was more than a want. It was an obsession, a single-minded need. He carried the weight of every shift like it was life or death.
And Murphy—her Murphy—she could see the pull in him, that urge to rise to meet Conner’s fire, to push himself past reason. She gripped the edge of the desk in front of her and whispered under her breath, Play your game, Rookie. Just play your game.
At the first break, Murphy skated off and tugged off his helmet, running a gloved hand through damp hair before grabbing the towel the attendant handed him. Hillary’s chest clenched as she watched him jog down the tunnel toward the waiting camera.
He’d done dozens of these interviews. He was good at them. He was calm, charming, always ready with a grin and a quote the league loved to replay. But tonight wasn’t just another game. Tonight was the game.
The camera light flared, and Hillary leaned closer to the monitor.
“Murphy, tough first period,” the reporter started. “What’s it going to take to turn it around?”
Murphy gave a practiced half-smile, but Hillary saw it—the way his eyes darted too quickly, the twitch of his jaw. His words were steady, textbook even—play our game, stick to our system, plenty of hockey left to play—but she knew him too well.
He was nervous.
He had every right to be. The season, the storylines, his whole young career, it was all coming down to this.
Her hands curled into fists in her lap. She wanted to run down there, grab his hand, remind him of who he was. He was not just the rookie, not just hockey’s golden boy, but Murphy. Her Murphy.
When the camera cut away, she exhaled shakily and whispered, “You’ve got this, Rookie. You’ve got this.”
The second period kicked off with fire. The guys came out buzzing, every stride sharp, every shift electric. Hillary leaned forward in her seat, nails biting into the edge of her notebook.
When the whistle blew for the power play, the arena roared. Colorado tried to clear the puck, desperation in every swing, but Cash snagged it at the blue line and kept it in. The puck snapped across the ice—stick to stick—until it landed on Murphy’s blade.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
He barely had it for a breath before his head snapped up. Conner was streaking into open ice left of the crease, and in that perfect heartbeat, Murphy threaded the puck right through traffic.
CRACK.
The red light blazed behind the net. The puck hit twine.
The goal horn blared, and Hillary shot to her feet, clapping and cheering with the rest of the crowd. Her chest ached with pride. This was him. Confident. Sharp. Unshakable, even on the biggest stage of his life.
As the team mobbed Conner against the glass, Murphy was there in the middle of it, grinning. On the Jumbotron, his face lit up like the sun, sweat dripping—and Hillary couldn’t stop smiling.
“That’s my Rookie,” she whispered, voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
The arena was still vibrating from Conner’s goal when Sven buried one of his own a few shifts later. The crowd thundered, rally towels flying, and Hillary let herself exhale for the first time all night. This is it. This is their game.
Murphy and his line hopped the boards for their next shift, all grit and sharp edges, keeping the pressure up. She felt her pulse thrumming with every slap of his stick, every stride cutting into the ice.
But hockey never stayed comfortable for long.
Late in the period, Colorado caught them flat-footed. A turnover, a rush the other way, and before the defense could close the gap, the puck slipped past their goalie.
The silence that fell over the crowd was sharp. Hillary’s heart sank.
On the Jumbotron, Murphy’s jaw clenched as Coach tapped Conner’s shoulder and motioned for the next line change. Professional calm on the outside, but she knew him now. She knew how badly he wanted this, how much weight he carried for everyone around him.
When the horn blew to end the second period, the score sat locked at 2–2. Hillary gathered her notes with shaky hands, trying to look like she wasn’t about to crawl out of her own skin.
One more period. Twenty minutes of hockey to decide everything.
“I think I’m going to die,” Alice muttered, leaning forward so only Hillary could hear her over the buzz of the arena.
Hillary’s hands were clenched so tightly around her pen that she could feel the indentations in her palms. She wanted to agree, to blurt out me too, but outwardly she forced herself into her PR-calm voice.
Her eyes locked on the ice as the players circled. “Our guys got this.”
Below them, the team glided back onto the ice for the final period, Murphy’s line taking their position at center. The crowd’s roar rose up like a wave, jerseys and towels flashing in the stands. Hillary tracked Murphy’s number automatically, her heart beating in sync with the thrum of the arena.
Alice groaned, sinking lower in her seat. “I don’t know how you’re so calm.”
Hillary smiled tightly. “Years of practice.” But the truth was her stomach was a knot of nerves. This wasn’t just a game. This was the game.
The puck dropped. The final twenty minutes had begun.
The clock ticked down, the boards rattling from hit after hit, both teams leaving everything they had on the ice. Hillary’s pulse thudded in her ears, every shift ratcheting the tension higher.
Then two minutes to go.
Conner dug the puck free along the boards, muscling past a defenseman, and with a snap of his wrists, sent it flying out of traffic. Murphy caught it clean between the blue lines.
Hillary shot to her feet before she even realized she’d moved.
There was nothing but open ice, one defender, and the goalie standing between him and glory. Her chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe as Murphy streaked down the ice. The defender lunged, stick outstretched, but Murphy dipped, faster, smoother, every stride a promise.
He faked right. The goalie shifted. And in a blink, Murphy slid the puck five-hole.
The red light flashed.
The horn blared.
The entire arena erupted. Fans screamed, towels whipped through the air, and the bench thundered as guys banged their sticks. Hillary clapped a hand over her mouth, heart slamming as joy and disbelief tangled inside her.
Murphy’s teammates mobbed him against the glass, helmets crashing, gloves thumping. He turned just enough that she swore he glanced up toward the press box. Whether it was in her imagination or not, Hillary felt it deep in her bones. He’d done it.
All they had to do was hold on. Two minutes. Just two minutes. Hillary gripped the railing so hard her knuckles turned white, heart hammering like it could push time faster.
But those last seconds stretched into eternity, every Colorado rush down the ice made her breath hitch, every block and clear bringing the roar of the crowd to a fever pitch.
Ten seconds.
Five.
Three.
The horn blasted.
For a moment, there was silence in her chest, like the world had paused. And then it all broke loose—gloves and sticks clattered to the ice as the Magic swarmed, piling onto each other in a chaotic heap of bodies, shouts, and uncontainable joy.
They’d done it.