"No, just knowing you are here holding it down is enough."
"Okay," Sasha said, pulling her back in for a quick hug. "We are here if you need anything."
"Thanks," Hillary said quickly before turning around and making her way back to her office. She was not good at this stuff, but her aptitude for emotions didn't seem to matter when she had a funeral to plan.
22
MURPHY
The locker room was already humming when Murphy walked in, gear bag slung over his shoulder. A few heads turned, and then the chirping started.
“Look who it is, Loverboy!” Ethan called, grinning widely.
“Careful,” Wes added, “one hip roll and half the internet’s ready to marry you.”
Cash snorted. “Better get a manager, Murphy. You’re about to be the face of boy-band-hockey.”
Murphy rolled his eyes, tossing his bag into his stall.
He didn’t mind. Not really. It was easier to laugh with them than admit how wild it still felt, seeing his abs plastered all over socials.
Conner caught his arm before he sat down, pulling him aside. “Hey. Just wanted to check in. You good with all this?”
Murphy blinked. “With what?”
“The attention,” Conner said. “The internet’s loud, man. It can get to you. Trust me.” His expression softened, voice lowering. “After everything last year with Sasha, I just want to make sure you’re not feeling pressured.”
Murphy swallowed, then nodded. “I’m okay. For now, anyway. It’s weird, but I can handle it.”
Conner gave him a solid pat on the shoulder like he believed him. “Good.”
Before Murphy could respond, the locker-room door opened, and Sasha slipped in, a big card tucked under her arm. “Hey, guys. I need all of you to sign this before warm-ups.”
“What’s it for?” Wes asked.
Sasha’s face softened. “Hillary’s grandmother passed away last night.”
Murphy froze.
The chatter of pens scratching on cardstock filled the room, but all he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears. Hillary. Grief tightening her chest. The memory of her crying in that hotel room, trying so hard to hold it together.
He wanted to go to her. Now.
As Sasha turned to leave, Murphy bolted after her, catching her in the hallway. “Wait—Hillary. Is she here?”
Sasha shook her head gently. “She was about to head out of town.” Her eyes narrowed, sharp with curiosity. “Why?”
Murphy forced his face into something neutral, fighting back the truth. Hillary didn’t want people to know. Not about them. Not about anything.
“Just . . . wanted to sign it,” he said with a shrug. “Make sure she knows we are thinking of her.”
Sasha studied him for a beat too long before nodding. “I’ll make sure she knows.”
Murphy nodded back, but inside, his chest was twisting. Hillary was gone. Hurting. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
By the time he pulled on his gear and hit the ice, Murphy’s head still wasn’t clear. The boards rattled with pucks, blades scraped ice, but his focus scattered like loose tape.
First pass—missed.
