All they had to do was hold on. Two minutes. Just two minutes. Hillary gripped the railing so hard her knuckles turned white, heart hammering like it could push time faster.
But those last seconds stretched into eternity, every Colorado rush down the ice made her breath hitch, every block and clear bringing the roar of the crowd to a fever pitch.
Ten seconds.
Five.
Three.
The horn blasted.
For a moment, there was silence in her chest, like the world had paused. And then it all broke loose—gloves and sticks clattered to the ice as the Magic swarmed, piling onto each other in a chaotic heap of bodies, shouts, and uncontainable joy.
They’d done it.
61
MURPHY
The horn sounded, long and unrelenting, and the world exploded.
Murphy barely registered the final score before his teammates crashed into him from every direction. Gloves flew. Sticks clattered to the ice. Someone shouted his name—once, twice, a dozen times—and suddenly he was laughing, breathless, helmet ripped off his head as hands grabbed at his shoulders and dragged him into the middle of the chaos.
They’d done it.
The Stanley Cup was coming home to Glendale.
His chest felt too small for his heart. Years of early mornings, bruises, doubts, and quiet terror all collapsed into this single, blinding moment. He dropped his head back and let the noise wash over him, the roar of the crowd vibrating through his bones.
And then he looked up.
Hillary stood just beyond the boards, eyes shining, one hand pressed to her mouth like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. She wasn’t shouting. She wasn’t waving.
She was watching him.
The world tilted.
He felt it instantly, that grounding pull, the way everything sharpened and focused when he found her. The Cup could’ve vanished, the crowd could’ve gone silent, and he still would’ve known he’d won something bigger just by the way she looked at him.
Connor was handed the Cup first, skating it around in a wild victory lap, the crowd roaring louder with every stride. Murphy barely saw it until Connor slowed and turned?—
And passed it to him.
The weight hit his hands, solid and real and heavier than he expected. He laughed out loud, a sound torn straight from his chest, and lifted it overhead like it was nothing at all. The arena erupted, noise crashing down as cameras flashed in his face.
This was it.
This was real.
He kissed the rim, lifted it again, skates carving clean arcs into the ice as he started his lap. Everywhere he looked were faces, lights, movement, but none of it mattered the wayshedid.
When he passed her side of the rink, his gaze snapped up automatically.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second, but it was enough.
Her smile was soft and wrecked and entirely his, and it hit him harder than any goal he’d ever stopped. His knees went weak, heart soaring so high it scared him.
