Shot at the net—wide.
Another drill—his stick fumbled, puck sliding off into the corner.
Conner skated by, snagging the loose puck, eyebrows lifted. “You good, man?”
“Yeah,” Murphy muttered, forcing a smile. He wasn’t fooling anybody. His passes kept slipping, his timing off, his whole rhythm just . . . gone.
They wrapped warm-ups, heading back toward the tunnel. Wes dropped back to fall in beside him, helmet tucked under one arm. “Everything okay? You’ve been off since we started.”
Murphy clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to talk about Hillary. Couldn’t. “I’m fine,” he said, a little sharper than intended.
Murphy blew out a breath, letting his shoulders drop. “Yeah. My warm-ups were off, I’ll admit it. But it’s got nothing to do with the viral stuff. I’ll be good for the game.”
Wes held his stare for another beat before finally nodding. “Okay. Just checking.”
Murphy flexed his grip on his stick, forcing the tension out of his chest. He’d pull it together. For the team. For the game.
But deep down, he knew the truth. His head wasn’t scrambled because of the internet. It was because of her.
After warm-ups, they were back in the locker room. Murphy slid into his stall, earbuds in, and let his pregame playlist drown everything out. The bass thumped steadily in his chest, his own private rhythm as the noise of the room faded to a low hum. This was his reset button. Music, focus, the game.
By the time they hit the tunnel and stepped onto the ice for introductions, his pulse had steadied. The crowd roared as the announcer rattled off the starting lineup. He tapped gloveswith Wes, Conner, the rest of the line, and lifted his chin as the anthem filled the arena.
And just like that, the rest of it—Hillary, the comments, the grief tugging at his chest—fell away. Out here, there was only the game.
The first period was a grind, both teams pressing hard, but with less than a minute left, Conner scooped the puck at center ice and fed it clean down the line. Murphy caught it, his skates cutting hard, and snapped a shot just inside the top corner. The red light flashed, the horn blared, and the bench erupted.
1–0.
By intermission, he was still buzzing when the PR handler flagged him for a quick interview. Murphy tugged off his helmet, sweat slicking his hair, and on ice press box.
The man grinned. “Murphy, I’ve got to start here. You’re trending online again after last night. #MurphyNation. How does it feel to go viral for a boy-band dance?”
Murphy laughed, shaking his head. “Honestly? I did it for my little sister. North Star’s her favorite band. She’s the real fan in the family.”
The reporter chuckled, clearly charmed. “Well, she’s got plenty to brag about now. Let’s get back to hockey—huge goal to close out the first. What’s the mindset going into the second period?”
Murphy’s grin steadied into something calmer, more measured. “We’ve got to stay disciplined. Conner made a great pass, and I was just in the right spot. If we keep our feet moving and stick to our system, we’ll keep the momentum.”
“Appreciate it. Good luck in the second.”
Murphy nodded and jogged back toward the locker room, his focus already narrowing again.
Back to work.
They sealed the win 3–1, the final horn echoing as the crowd roared. Murphy skated off the ice with the same rush that had carried him through every shift—sharp, disciplined, exactly what he’d promised Wes and Conner.
By the time he’d showered and dressed, the adrenaline had dulled to a steady hum. He pulled out his phone before heading out, thumb hovering. He typed a quick message.
Murphy - How are you doing?
No response.
He pocketed his phone, jaw tight, and followed the guys to Westside Pub.
The place was extra tonight, buzzing with the glow of their win and the aftershock of the internet storm. Normally, Murphy was the guy who drew polite smiles from the “bunnies” that orbited the team—attention that was easy to sidestep unless he showed interest. Tonight, though? They were everywhere. Laughing too loud, leaning too close, angling for his attention.
He smiled, nodded, and kept his answers polite.
