Coach blew the whistle, and the razzing turned into focus. Connor, Wes, and Murphy lined up for a rush drill. The puck dropped, and everything clicked. Wes fed Connor, Connor threaded it back, and Murphy sniped it top shelf, the sound of the puck smacking twine louder than all the noise in his head.
“Not bad, Loverboy!” Cash called, earning a laugh from the bench.
Murphy just tapped his stick on the ice and lined up for another rep. His legs felt lighter, his lungs fuller. For the first time in weeks, he was skating free.
They ran breakouts, odd-man rushes, and power-play sets. Connor’s intensity bled into everyone else, but today Murphy welcomed it. He pushed hard, sweat slicking his temples, but it wasn’t punishing. It was pure joy.
And when he scored again, Connor smacked him on the helmet with his glove. No words, just a nod that saidyou’re good. We’re good.
The whistle blew, and Coach barked ‘that was enough for today’. The guys clattered off the ice, still ribbing him, still joking, but Murphy barely heard them. He was already thinking about heading home, grabbing Finn, and seeing Hillary.
For the first time in a long time, the ice and his life felt like they belonged together—not two worlds he had to keep apart.
The laptop screen went dark, but Murphy was still smiling like an idiot. His family always had that effect on him—chaoticand loud and full of love. Patrick had spent half the call talking trash about Florida, Maddie had rolled her eyes at everything, and his mom had asked Hillary about her job. His dad had cracked a joke about Hillary having the patience of a saint for dating him.
And Hillary . . . she’d just sat there, cross-legged on the rug, smiling like she belonged in the middle of it. Like she’d always belonged.
He leaned back against the couch, stretching until his shirt tugged up a little, and let out a long, content breath. “This feels good.”
Her head found his chest instantly, like it had always been meant to rest there. “It does,” she murmured, her voice warm.
Finn nosed at one of the empty cartons, whining for attention, and Murphy absently flicked him the last piece of chicken before pulling Hillary closer. The room was quiet now, the soft hum of the lamp and the faint sound of Finn chewing filling the silence.
He didn’t need the noise of the rink, or the adrenaline of the game, or even the rush of a crowd chanting his name. This—takeout cartons, his dog snoring on the rug, Hillary curled up against him—was better.
The next morning, Murphy was back on the ice. By the time practice wrapped, his legs felt like lead, and his mind was buzzing with playoff talk, line chemistry, and the endless what-ifs that came with the postseason. The team had that edge, the restless excitement of something bigger coming, but Murphy carried a quiet calm beneath it all.
Because no matter what happened on the ice, he knew where he’d end the night.
Hours later, he was sprawled on Hillary’s couch this time, a half-empty takeout container balanced on the coffee table, and Finn snoring loudly on the rug. His muscles still ached fromdrills, but with Hillary tucked against his side, he felt like he could breathe again.
Normal. Comfort. Belonging. All in one messy, beautiful package.
He stretched his legs out under the coffee table, Hillary’s weight tucked comfortably against him, her hand tracing idle patterns on his thigh.
“When’s the story supposed to come out?” he asked, voice low in the quiet room.
“Next week,” she said.
He let out a little huff of laughter. “Perfect timing. Playoffs will drown it out.”
When he looked down at her, she was staring at him, brows drawn, eyes soft in a way that tugged at his chest. “What?” he asked.
“I just . . . ” She shook her head, her mouth twisting. “I can’t believe I almost ruined this for us.”
Murphy’s chest squeezed. He leaned down and kissed her slowly, lingering until her shoulders dropped and she melted into him. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he murmured against her lips. “We’re right where we’re supposed to be.”
Her eyes shone, her voice catching. “I love you.”
He kissed her again, firmer this time, his thumb brushing her cheek. “I love you too, Boss.”
For a few breaths, the world narrowed to just the two of them, her heartbeat steady against his side, the warmth of her lips still tingling on his.
Then a sharp whine broke the spell.
Finn pawed at the sliding door, tail wagging with determination. Murphy chuckled against Hillary’s hair. “Guess someone wants his turn at attention.”
She laughed, the sound muffled into his chest, before pulling away so Murphy could let the dog out. And even as Finn barreledinto the night air, Murphy felt the steady thrum of contentment. For the first time, it wasn’t fleeting.
