Murphy’s throat ached. He couldn’t speak past the lump there, so he just nodded, the weight in his chest loosening slightly.
His dad smirked then, easing the heaviness. “Well, I hope she likes Red Sox and bad diner coffee, ‘cause that’s what she’s marrying into.”
Murphy huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, but inside . . . yeah. It felt good to say it. To admit it. To know someone else saw what he had with Hillary and thought it was worth holding onto.
When they stepped back into Patrick’s room, the cozy chaos of beeping monitors and low laughter greeted them. Hillary slipped in behind Murphy, quiet, warm, exactly what he needed.
But almost as soon as she sat down, her phone started buzzing against the pocket of her blazer. Once. Twice. Again. She flushed, pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and quickly silenced it.
“Sorry,” she whispered, tucking it away before anyone else noticed. “It can wait.”
Murphy didn’t say anything right away. He just watched her, filing away the tension in her eyes, the way her smile wavered as she reached for Patrick’s hand.
A few minutes later, when things had settled again—Maddie on her tablet, his mom fussing with the blanket, his dad unwrapping another vending machine snack—Murphy caught Hillary’s gaze and tipped his head toward the hall.
She followed, her heels soft against the linoleum.
Out in the corridor, with the hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the muted rush of a gurney being wheeled by, Murphy leaned down so his voice stayed low.
“What’s up?” he asked, eyes steady on hers. “That was the third time your phone buzzed. Is it Sasha? Something about the team?”
He tried to keep his tone calm, but he couldn’t hide the edge of worry. He needed her here with him, wanted her here, but he also knew her world didn’t stop just because his was hanging by a thread.
Hillary shifted against the wall, lowering her voice. “Nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve just been talking to the EA Sports guy.”
Murphy’s head snapped up. “What?” It came out louder than he meant, echoing down the sterile hall.
She blinked at him, surprised by the outburst, then smirked faintly. “Depending on how the Cup run shakes out, they’relooking at featuring someone from the team on the cover next year. And with all the buzz around you lately . . . ” She shrugged like it was no big deal. “They’re asking about you. I just sent them your agent’s info.”
Murphy’s face went slack. “But it’s only my second year . . . ”
“What can I say, rookie? You’re a star.” Her lips curved into something warm, proud.
Before he could reply, his dad poked his head into the hall. “What’s all this?”
Murphy scrambled for words, but it didn’t matter because Patrick had caught wind. From inside the room came his brother’s voice, loud and insistent: “Murph! The cover! You have to do it!”
And just like that, the entire family was buzzing. Maddie squealed, his mom laughed through her exhaustion, and Patrick beamed from the hospital bed like Murphy had already scored the Cup-winning goal.
Patrick jabbed a finger toward him, mock stern. “But you’d better get back to practice. No slacking. You can’t be on the cover unless you get the Cup.”
For a moment, even with the machines beeping and the hospital air sharp in his lungs, it felt like hope.
The doctor finished his rounds with a calm smile. “If Patrick remains stable, he can go home in two days.”
Relief rippled through the room like a wave. Murphy squeezed his brother’s shoulder, and Patrick grinned, still pale but clearly pleased with himself. Maddie clapped, and his dad exhaled so loudly it drew a laugh from their mom.
That same mom turned her gaze on Murphy, her tone gentle but firm. “See? He’s on the mend. You’ve done what you came to do, sweetheart. Now you need to go back home.”
Murphy’s chest tightened. “I don’t want to leave him.”
“You’re not leaving him,” she corrected softly, brushing a hand over his hair like she had when he was little. “You’re going back to do your job. The job he told you to get back to.” She tilted her head toward Patrick, who raised his controller like a fist pump.
“Go win the Cup, Murph,” Patrick chimed in with a tired grin.
The ache in Murphy’s chest eased, just a little, as he met his brother’s determined eyes. Hillary slipped her hand into his and gave it a squeeze, steady and sure.
He nodded. “Okay. I’ll go back.”
