The locker room buzzed with energy, half the guys chirping each other, half still sweating from the skate. Connor and Wes were at it about who’d “carried the drill,” and Cash was already talking about post-practice burritos. Murphy tuned it all out.
He sat back in front of his stall, towel slung over his shoulders, and thumbed open his phone. His teammates’ banter faded into background noise.
Boss. That was still what her contact read. He couldn’t bring himself to change it yet, even if things between them were different now. More real.
He pulled up her thread and stared at the photo he’d snapped last night: Hillary asleep on his chest, her hand curled against his shirt, Finn snoring at their feet while some half-finished movie flickered in the background. Peaceful. Vulnerable. His.
His chest squeezed.
Before he could second-guess it, he typed out three words.
Thinking of you.
He hit send, locked the screen, and tucked his phone away. The noise of the locker room rushed back in around him, but he carried the quiet weight of that message with him, a tether that stretched across the arena and right to her.
It was a good day, a great day even, and it was only getting better as he prepared dinner.
The scent of frying chicken and garlic filled the condo, the pan sizzling under Murphy’s watchful eye. Hillary was at the counter uncorking wine, her hair catching the light, while from the living room came the rattling thunks of Finn’s treat dispenser as he nosed it across the floor.
Murphy grinned at the chaos until his phone buzzed on the counter. He wiped his hands and picked up.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Murphy.” Her voice warmed instantly, full of affection. “How’s my favorite left winger?”
He chuckled. “I’m good. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to remind you Patrick should be heading home tomorrow. The doctors are optimistic. Everything is going as planned.”
Murphy froze. The pan popped behind him, but it felt far away. His grip tightened on the phone. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
“I know how you worry, but I hadn’t heard from you since the surgery,” she said lightly, though a mother’s radar always caught more than you wanted.
“Yeah, no—I just—slipped my mind for a second. Been busy.”
There was a pause. “Murphy. You’re allowed to have a life, honey. Patrick knows you love him. We all do.”
“Still feels wrong,” he admitted. “Like I should’ve been checking in more.”
“You’ve already done more than enough. You sent money for the travel, for the bills. You FaceTime him every week. You’ll be there as soon as the schedule lets you.” Her voice softened to a whisper. “Don’t wear yourself out on top of everything else.”
His throat tightened. “I just don’t want to let him down.”
“You never could.”
Finn barked in the other room as his toy rolled under the couch. Hillary bent to fish it out, tossing the retriever a fond look, but her eyes flicked to Murphy.
He hung up, set the phone down, and just stood there, towel clenched in his fist. The weight of guilt pressed hard, heavier than the skillet in front of him.
“You okay?” Hillary’s voice was careful, as if she knew he wasn’t.
Murphy let out a rough breath. “Patrick’s still in the hospital. And I . . . I almost forgot. What kind of brother does that make me?”
Hillary set the wine bottle down and crossed to him, her bare feet padded softly against the kitchen tile. He was still staring at the stove, jaw tight, guilt weighing heavily on his broad shoulders.
“Murphy.” Her voice was gentle, but it pulled his gaze to hers. She reached up, brushing her fingers over his arm before sliding them down to take his hand. “You didn’t forget because you don’t care. You forgot because you’ve been carrying too much.”
He shook his head. “That’s not an excuse.”
