She ordered her vanilla latte with the extra shot. He got his usual black coffee to go with his smoothie. When their drinks came, he slid hers across the table with a grin.
“Guess this means I can’t leave one on your desk every morning anymore,” he teased.
She arched a brow over her cup. “Why not?”
“Because this is better,” he said, simple and certain. Sharing a table, not sneaking around. Starting the day with her instead of hoping she’d notice his note.
Her eyes softened, and that tiny smile tugged at her mouth again. He didn’t even need the caffeine. That smile was enough to wake him up.
The walk from the café to the arena was short, but it felt like the longest stretch of the morning. Hillary held her coffee close, the steam fogging up the crisp air, her eyes set straight ahead. Murphy shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket, his brain humming with the same thought he’d had for weeks.
He wanted to tell people. He wanted her on his arm without hesitation, wanted everyone to know that Hillary Lawson was his person.
But when they reached the glass doors of the arena, and she swiped her badge, he caught the flicker in her expression. Her jaw tightened. Her shoulders went stiff. She was nervous.
Inside the quiet hallway, he stopped her before she ducked toward her office. “Hey.” His voice was softer than he intended, but it pulled her gaze back to him.
“I know we need to talk about telling people,” he said. “And I want that. I want it more than anything. But . . . ” He exhaled, his lips twisting. “If you’re not ready, we can hold off. I don’t want you feeling cornered.”
Her eyes softened, but the nerves didn’t disappear. She shook her head. “It’s not about hiding you, Murphy. Please don’t think that. You’re . . . you’re the best part of my life. My hesitation isn’t about you. It’s about me. About how much of myself I’m willing to share with the world.”
He took that in. Slowly, carefully. And though it wasn’t the answer he wanted, it was the truth, and she was giving it to him straight.
He reached out, brushing his fingers along hers until she gave in and laced them together. “Okay,” he said, steady. “I get it. I don’t love it, but I get it. Just promise me one thing.”
Her brows lifted. “What’s that?”
“That when you’re ready, you won’t hold back.” His voice was quiet but certain. “Because I’m not going anywhere. And I don’t want to feel like I’m some secret piece of your life.”
For the first time all morning, her shoulders eased. She squeezed his hand. “Deal.”
They let go before anyone could round the corner, but the warmth lingered in Murphy’s chest as he headed toward the locker room. It wasn’t the reveal he’d been dreaming of, but it was enough for now.
Murphy walked her all the way to her office, their steps slow even though the hallway was already filling with staff. When they reached her door, she gave him a quick smile, the kind that looked small on the surface but still managed to gut him. He wanted to lean in, kiss her right there in the middle of the arena, but instead, he settled for brushing his knuckles along hers before stepping back.
“See you after,” she murmured.
“Count on it,” he said, and turned toward the locker room before he could give in to temptation.
He made his way to the ice floating on a cloud. They clinched their playoff seat last game. The hard part was done, at leaston paper. Now came the waiting game, watching the standings shake out to see who they’d line up against. Murphy could feel the energy buzzing through the room, that mix of relief and adrenaline only a playoff berth could bring.
As he laced up his skates, he let himself smile. This—this banter, this anticipation, this team—was what grounded him. Whatever storm was brewing outside these walls, at least on the ice, he knew exactly who he was and what he could do.
The chill of the rink hit him as soon as he stepped out, blades gliding on the fresh ice. Morning skate had always been his reset button, but today it felt even better.
Connor slid up beside him, stick tapping his own in greeting. “Ready to roll, Murph?”
“Always.”
And then Wes joined them, slotting into their line like he’d been born there. The three of them clicked in a way that felt almost unfair. With Conner’s calm precision, Wes’s fire, and Murphy’s drive, they wove together like a perfect thread. Their passes stuck. Their timing was sharp. When Murphy dug in for a breakaway, he didn’t have to force it, didn’t have to punish his body into moving faster. It came easily, naturally, and the puck hit the back of the net with a sound that made him grin.
“Hot hands,” Wes whooped, skating up to fist-bump him.
“Guess I’m just carrying you two,” Murphy teased, earning an eye roll from Connor.
The drills rolled on, each one smoother than the last. No panic, no overthinking. Just hockey. For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t overcompensating, wasn’t trying to drown out feelings he couldn’t control. He was just Murphy, on the ice, with his line. And it felt damn good.
When Coach blew the whistle, calling them in to regroup, Murphy leaned on his stick and sucked in a breath that tasted like relief. Yeah. This—this was where he belonged. And foronce, he believed he could have both, this game and the woman waiting for him off the ice.
