Her chest tightened. She wanted to reach across the desk, to hold his hand, to tell him he wasn’t carrying this alone anymore. But she stayed still, watching the way his eyes flicked down to the wrapper in his hands, his thumb worrying the folded edge.
“I know my mom,” he added softly. “She’d never tell me if something was wrong, not until she had to. And I trust her, but still . . . It's Patrick.”
The way he said his brother’s name—so full of love and worry—broke something open in her.
“Murphy.” Her voice was gentle, softer than she meant it to be. “Your mom would tell you if it were serious. And Patrick, he’s stronger than anyone gives him credit for. You’ve said it yourself. They’re taking good care of him, and he’s lucky to have you checking in every day.”
He looked up at her, eyes still shadowed, and something inside her cracked wide open. She pushed her chair back and stood, the words not enough. Crossing around the desk, she laid a hand on his shoulder.
The second she touched him, his hand came up and covered hers, holding it there. Then, without thinking twice, he tugged her down onto his lap.
She let out a startled breath, but the moment his arm wrapped around her waist, the tension in both of them eased.
“Murph . . . ” she murmured, not sure what she meant to say.
He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes like he could let himself breathe for the first time that day. “I just needed this,” he admitted quietly.
Her heart swelled and ached all at once. She threaded her fingers into his hair and whispered back, “Me too.”
For a few long minutes, they just stayed there, her head on his shoulder, his heartbeat steady against her palm, both of them holding on like the world outside the office didn’t exist.
Murphy’s hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she tipped her chin to meet his mouth. The kiss was slow, a press of lips that deepened as his thumb traced the line of her jaw. Her fingers curled into the front of his hoodie, anchoring herself ashis mouth moved against hers, coaxing, teasing, until all the air seemed to leave her lungs.
In the moment, it was easy to forget the office, the meetings, the team. It was just him, his warmth, his strength, the steady beat of his heart under her palm.
She sighed into him, and his answering groan made her whole body shiver. His hand slid into her hair, tilting her head just so, deepening the kiss again until her mind went deliciously blank.
Then her phone buzzed on the desk, the sharp ding yanking her back. She pulled away, breathless and flushed, forehead resting against his.
Murphy chuckled softly, brushing his nose against hers. “Guess that’s our cue.”
“I hate whoever that is,” she muttered, already missing his mouth.
He smiled and gave her one more lingering kiss. “Me too. But I’ve got to get to practice anyway.”
When she reluctantly stood, he squeezed her hand and winked. “Don’t work too hard, boss.”
The door clicked shut behind him, and Hillary slumped back into her chair, lips tingling, heart racing, wondering how on earth she was supposed to focus on anything else.
54
MURPHY
Murphy sat in the darkened video room, eyes on the screen, mind somewhere else. Coach paused a clip of their last game, breaking down a defensive rotation, but Murphy had to drag himself back into focus. His world had been so steady, so good these last few weeks, it was hard to lock in.
He shifted in his chair, notebook open but blank. Normally, this was his sweet spot—the details, the tweaks, the puzzle of hockey. Right now, though? His head was full of Hillary.
Their rhythm together had fallen into place faster than he ever imagined. Mornings with coffee and stolen kisses. Evenings with Finn curled up at their feet. Dinner together, sometimes at his place, sometimes hers, both of them cooking or laughing when something burned. Every moment felt like it fit, like it was exactly where he was meant to be.
They had one more regular-season game before the playoffs started, and Murphy could feel that playoff electricity buzzing through the team. But it wasn’t panic, not this year. For once, he wasn’t trying to outrun the weight in his chest. He was anchored.
Finn. Hillary. Hockey. For the first time in a long time, everything felt good. Like he was in his sweet spot both on the ice and off it.
When they finally hit the ice, Murphy could feel the energy shift. Normally, practice was a place he could lose himself, but Conner’s jaw was tight, every stride sharp with purpose.
Murphy, on the other hand, was a mess. As he missed the second pass of the drill, his brow furrowed. He was playing sloppier than he had all year. He needed to find his focus.
“Come on, boys,” Wes called as they cycled through another rush, trying to keep things light. “We’ve got this. It’s practice, not game seven.”
