Hillary sat beneath a wide old oak, a blanket spread out beneath her like she’d grown there, a basket open at her side. Her hair was down: soft, loose, and catching the light. She wore a simple tank top and jean shorts, her curves accentuated and unapologetic, but what knocked the breath from his chest wasn’t how relaxed she looked.
No sharp edges. No armor. Just Hillary, barefoot, knees tucked to one side, gazing out at the river like she belonged to the quiet.
Murphy stopped short.
She looked up and smiled.
“You found it,” she said.
“Against all odds,” he replied, stepping closer. “I’m pretty sure your directions violated at least three traffic laws.”
She laughed, and the sound settled straight into his chest. “I warned you.”
He dropped onto the blanket beside her, close enough that he could feel her warmth without touching. Too aware. Too much. And yet easy. Like slipping into something familiar that he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
“How has your off-season been?” she asked as she got some popcorn out of the basket.
“Good. I’ve been training pretty hard, but I’ve gotten some time to spend with my family. I was glad I ran into you yesterday because I usually spend the 4th with my family, but my sister, Maddie, is spending the summer at an art camp and my parents went to spend it with her.”
Hillary perked up. “Maddie is your sister?”
“Yep,” he said as he took a handful of popcorn. “But I figured you knew that since you know everything about us players. You keep it in those big files of yours. Did you forget?”
“I did not forget. Believe it or not, I take the summers off as well.”
“You do?”
“Well . . . No, but I don’t have to keep up with all you men and the headaches you create.”
He held his hands up defensively. “Hey now, I try not to cause any problems.”
“No, you don’t. You cause a different kind of trouble,” as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she looked like she wanted to take them back. “Sydney should be here soon.” She picked up her phone and started quickly scrolling.
“What else have you got in this basket? I’m starving,” Murphy asked.
She looked up at him with a small smile, seemingly grateful for the subject change.
“I just brought some popcorn and some snacks. Nothing too fancy.”
She opened the basket and handed him snacks: berries, crackers, some muffins wrapped in paper from the farmer’s market. Their shoulders brushed. Their knees bumped. Neither of them pulled away.
The sun dipped lower, the air cooling, cicadas starting up around them.
Murphy hadn’t stopped thinking about her since the gala.
He’d told himself it was fine. That she’d drawn her line, and he respected it. That wanting her didn’t mean he had to reach.
But sitting here—watching the sky darken beside her—it felt like standing too close to the edge of something he’d promised himself he wouldn’t jump into.
“Have you heard from Sydney?” he asked suddenly, glancing at her phone.
Almost on cue, it buzzed.
She read the message, lips quirking. “She can’t make it. She got stuck at the hospital.”
Murphy kept his face neutral through sheer force of will.
Inside, he was absurdly, selfishly relieved.
