Chapter 61 Murphy
MURPHY
The horn sounded, long and unrelenting, and the world exploded.
Murphy barely registered the final score before his teammates crashed into him from every direction.
Gloves flew. Sticks clattered to the ice.
Someone shouted his name—once, twice, a dozen times—and suddenly he was laughing, breathless, helmet ripped off his head as hands grabbed at his shoulders and dragged him into the middle of the chaos.
They’d done it.
The Stanley Cup was coming home to Glendale.
His chest felt too small for his heart. Years of early mornings, bruises, doubts, and quiet terror all collapsed into this single, blinding moment. He dropped his head back and let the noise wash over him, the roar of the crowd vibrating through his bones.
And then he looked up.
Hillary stood just beyond the boards, eyes shining, one hand pressed to her mouth like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. She wasn’t shouting. She wasn’t waving.
She was watching him.
The world tilted.
He felt it instantly, that grounding pull, the way everything sharpened and focused when he found her. The Cup could’ve vanished, the crowd could’ve gone silent, and he still would’ve known he’d won something bigger just by the way she looked at him.
Connor was handed the Cup first, skating it around in a wild victory lap, the crowd roaring louder with every stride. Murphy barely saw it until Connor slowed and turned—
And passed it to him.
The weight hit his hands, solid and real and heavier than he expected. He laughed out loud, a sound torn straight from his chest, and lifted it overhead like it was nothing at all. The arena erupted, noise crashing down as cameras flashed in his face.
This was it.
This was real.
He kissed the rim, lifted it again, skates carving clean arcs into the ice as he started his lap. Everywhere he looked were faces, lights, movement, but none of it mattered the way she did.
When he passed her side of the rink, his gaze snapped up automatically.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second, but it was enough.
Her smile was soft and wrecked and entirely his, and it hit him harder than any goal he’d ever stopped. His knees went weak, heart soaring so high it scared him.
He didn’t even think.
He changed direction and skated straight for her.
The ice was chaos—teammates shouting, cameras surging, fans screaming—but when he reached her, none of it existed. He wrapped his arms around her and lifted her clean off the ice, spinning them both in a dizzy circle that felt like flying.
She laughed, breathless and bright, and when he set her down, his mouth was on hers instantly in a hot, hungry, overflowing with joy kiss he couldn’t contain. The kiss tasted like sweat and victory and relief and everything he’d been holding back all season.
She threaded her fingers into his damp hair, hands warm against his skin, then dragged them down to his jaw, rubbing at his half-grown playoff beard with a teasing wrinkle of her nose.
“You can finally shave this now,” she said.
He grinned, chest still heaving, adrenaline roaring through him. “Not until I get my official picture with the Cup.”
She kissed him again anyway.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, like the words were just for him.
“Boss,” he murmured back, voice rough and low. “We did it. I did it. And you’re here.”
Her eyes shone, tears slipping free as she smiled at him. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
The crowd surged again, another wave of sound, another announcement echoing through the arena, but Murphy barely heard it. With Hillary’s hands framing his face and her lips still tingling against his, the world narrowed down to this single, perfect moment.
This was the win.