CRACK.
The red light blazed behind the net. The puck hit twine.
The goal horn blared, and Hillary shot to her feet, clapping and cheering with the rest of the crowd. Her chest ached with pride. This washim. Confident. Sharp. Unshakable, even on the biggest stage of his life.
As the team mobbed Conner against the glass, Murphy was there in the middle of it, grinning. On the Jumbotron, his face lit up like the sun, sweat dripping—and Hillary couldn’t stop smiling.
“That’s my Rookie,” she whispered, voice lost in the roar of the crowd.
The arena was still vibrating from Conner’s goal when Sven buried one of his own a few shifts later. The crowd thundered, rally towels flying, and Hillary let herself exhale for the first time all night.This is it. This is their game.
Murphy and his line hopped the boards for their next shift, all grit and sharp edges, keeping the pressure up. She felt her pulse thrumming with every slap of his stick, every stride cutting into the ice.
But hockey never stayed comfortable for long.
Late in the period, Colorado caught them flat-footed. A turnover, a rush the other way, and before the defense could close the gap, the puck slipped past their goalie.
The silence that fell over the crowd was sharp. Hillary’s heart sank.
On the Jumbotron, Murphy’s jaw clenched as Coach tapped Conner’s shoulder and motioned for the next line change. Professional calm on the outside, but she knew him now. She knew how badly he wanted this, how much weight he carried for everyone around him.
When the horn blew to end the second period, the score sat locked at 2–2. Hillary gathered her notes with shaky hands, trying to look like she wasn’t about to crawl out of her own skin.
One more period. Twenty minutes of hockey to decide everything.
“I think I’m going to die,” Alice muttered, leaning forward so only Hillary could hear her over the buzz of the arena.
Hillary’s hands were clenched so tightly around her pen that she could feel the indentations in her palms. She wanted to agree, to blurt outme too,but outwardly she forced herself into her PR-calm voice.
Her eyes locked on the ice as the players circled. “Our guys got this.”
Below them, the team glided back onto the ice for the final period, Murphy’s line taking their position at center. The crowd’s roar rose up like a wave, jerseys and towels flashing in the stands. Hillary tracked Murphy’s number automatically, her heart beating in sync with the thrum of the arena.
Alice groaned, sinking lower in her seat. “I don’t know how you’re so calm.”
Hillary smiled tightly. “Years of practice.” But the truth was her stomach was a knot of nerves. This wasn’t just a game. This wasthegame.
The puck dropped. The final twenty minutes had begun.
The clock ticked down, the boards rattling from hit after hit, both teams leaving everything they had on the ice. Hillary’s pulse thudded in her ears, every shift ratcheting the tension higher.
Then two minutes to go.
Conner dug the puck free along the boards, muscling past a defenseman, and with a snap of his wrists, sent it flying out of traffic. Murphy caught it clean between the blue lines.
Hillary shot to her feet before she even realized she’d moved.
There was nothing but open ice, one defender, and the goalie standing between him and glory. Her chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe as Murphy streaked down the ice. The defender lunged, stick outstretched, but Murphy dipped, faster, smoother, every stride a promise.
He faked right. The goalie shifted. And in a blink, Murphy slid the puck five-hole.
The red light flashed.
The horn blared.
The entire arenaerupted. Fans screamed, towels whipped through the air, and the bench thundered as guys banged their sticks. Hillary clapped a hand over her mouth, heart slamming as joy and disbelief tangled inside her.
Murphy’s teammates mobbed him against the glass, helmets crashing, gloves thumping. He turned just enough that she swore he glanced up toward the press box. Whether it was in her imagination or not, Hillary felt it deep in her bones. He’d done it.
