It was theirs.
60
HILLARY
The season had been a blur of flights, hotel rooms, and PR nightmares, but also of grit and glory.
Round one: the team stormed through with a clean sweep, the kind of dominance that made the press drool. Round two, the conference finals: seven games of agony and ecstasy, capped off by Murphy’s overtime winner that still replayed in her mind. Beating Florida after what happened last year felt good.
And now this. Game seven of the finals. Everything.
Hillary smoothed her skirt and tried to steady her breathing in the press box, though her pulse was galloping. The arena hummed with nervous energy, twenty thousand people standing, their voices swelling as the national anthem began.
She forced herself to focus on the ice. The guys stood lined up at the blue line, backs straight, eyes locked ahead. Conner looked coiled tight, Wes calm as ever. And then her gaze landed on Murphy.
He stood tall, chin lifted, but she could read him better than anyone now. She saw the tiny rise of his chest as he drew in a breath, the flicker of his jaw as he clenched it. He looked everybit the golden boy for the cameras, but she knew the storm of nerves under the surface.
Her heart squeezed. He carried his family, his team, the weight of this city. And he still found time to bring her coffee every morning.
The anthem swelled, and Hillary blinked hard against tears. Whatever happened tonight, she knew one thing with terrifying certainty: she loved him.
Later in the first, the Jumbotron cut to the bench, larger than life. Conner sat forward, elbows braced on his knees, his intensity practically vibrating through the screen. Beside him, Wes leaned back, cool as ice, giving a small nod. And then there was Murphy—jaw set, focused, but not intense like Conner. He nodded once, too, calm, steady, grounding the energy between them.
The crowd roared at the shot of the three of them, chanting their line name, the noise shaking the rafters. Hillary’s stomach flipped.
End of the first period. Down by one.
Her rational, PR-trained brain reminded her that one goal was nothing. They had time, they had talent.
They all wanted this. Desperately. But with Conner, it was more than a want. It was an obsession, a single-minded need. He carried the weight of every shift like it was life or death.
And Murphy—her Murphy—she could see the pull in him, that urge to rise to meet Conner’s fire, to push himself past reason. She gripped the edge of the desk in front of her and whispered under her breath,Play your game, Rookie. Just play your game.
At the first break, Murphy skated off and tugged off his helmet, running a gloved hand through damp hair before grabbing the towel the attendant handed him. Hillary’s chestclenched as she watched him jog down the tunnel toward the waiting camera.
He’d done dozens of these interviews. He was good at them. He was calm, charming, always ready with a grin and a quote the league loved to replay. But tonight wasn’t just another game. Tonight wasthegame.
The camera light flared, and Hillary leaned closer to the monitor.
“Murphy, tough first period,” the reporter started. “What’s it going to take to turn it around?”
Murphy gave a practiced half-smile, but Hillary saw it—the way his eyes darted too quickly, the twitch of his jaw. His words were steady, textbook even—play our game, stick to our system, plenty of hockey left to play—but she knew him too well.
He was nervous.
He had every right to be. The season, the storylines, his whole young career, it was all coming down to this.
Her hands curled into fists in her lap. She wanted to run down there, grab his hand, remind him of who he was. He was not just the rookie, not just hockey’s golden boy, butMurphy. Her Murphy.
When the camera cut away, she exhaled shakily and whispered, “You’ve got this, Rookie. You’ve got this.”
The second period kicked off with fire. The guys came out buzzing, every stride sharp, every shift electric. Hillary leaned forward in her seat, nails biting into the edge of her notebook.
When the whistle blew for the power play, the arena roared. Colorado tried to clear the puck, desperation in every swing, but Cash snagged it at the blue line and kept it in. The puck snapped across the ice—stick to stick—until it landed on Murphy’s blade.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
He barely had it for a breath before his head snapped up. Conner was streaking into open ice left of the crease, and inthat perfect heartbeat, Murphy threaded the puck right through traffic.
