She flipped on the TV, remote in hand, more out of habit than interest. But her breath caught when the Magic’s game filled the screen. She hadn’twatchedlike this in years—not as PR, not from the press box or her office, but as a fan.
Before long, she found herself leaning forward, cheering quietly under her breath, her heart jumping with every rush down the ice.
Sydney poked her head in. “What are you doing?”
“Watching,” Hillary said simply, patting the space beside her.
Her sister climbed in, curling under the blanket. Together they watched the last minutes of the game, the two of them shouting when a near-miss puck clanged off the post.
The Magic lost, but the feed rolled straight into the postgame interview—and there was Murphy. Helmet off, cheeks flushed, sweat darkening his hair. Answering questions with that calm, professional focus of his, slipping in a boyish grin now and then.
Hillary’s chest tightened.
When she turned, Sydney was looking at her. Really looking.
“What’s that face about?” Hillary demanded.
Sydney’s brows rose. “What face?”
“That face you’re making.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hillary said quickly, turning back to the TV.
Sydney’s look lingered, doubtful but mercifully silent.
Hillary wanted to tell her. She wanted to spill everything, to finally say out loud the thing she’d been holding so close. But the words stuck, heavy and impossible.
“Night,” Sydney said finally, sliding off the bed.
“Night.”
Hillary turned onto her side, willing herself toward sleep.
Her phone rang.
The screen lit up with his name.
Murphy.
She answered quickly, surprising herself. She’d ignored his texts all day, buried under lists and family politics, but the thought of hearing his voice made her smile before she even spoke.
“Hey,” he said softly, concern woven through the single word. “I was starting to worry. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” she lied automatically.
“When’s the funeral?”
“In two days,” she said, her voice flat. Then, softer, she continued, “I watched your interview.”
“Rough game,” he admitted. “But we’ll get them next time.”
Silence hung for a moment, warm but fragile. Then he cleared his throat. “You getting enough coffee and muffins?”
The corner of her mouth curved despite herself. “Maybe. Why? You planning to deliver?”
“Always.” His grin was audible. “I’d bring you one right now if I could.”
Flirting came easier on the phone. Removed from the press of family walls and her grandmother’s endless lists, she let herself relax into it, hungry for his lightness.
