So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He let it all bleed out on the ice.
Warm-ups felt good, his body loose and dialed in. Every stride came easy, every pass clicked off his stick like muscle memory. By the time the puck dropped, he was flying.
He backchecked hard, muscled his way into corners, and threaded a pass between two defenders that set Cash up for a one-timer. In the second, he crashed the net and buried one himself, grinning as the red light flared. The guys on the bench banged their sticks, and even Taylor gave him a rare clap on the shoulder when he came off the ice.
By the final buzzer, sweat dripped into his eyes, but adrenaline kept him buzzing.
Even Niko—grumpy, perpetually unimpressed Niko—skated over and gave him a slap on the back. “Good game,” he muttered in that thick accent, like it physically hurt him to say it.
Murphy grinned, tugging off his helmet. If he had Niko’s approval, he must have done something right.
Back in the tunnel, the guys filed toward the locker room, laughter echoing off the walls. Cash fell into step beside him, smirking like he’d been waiting all night.
“Keep it up, loverboy,” Cash said, jabbing him in the ribs with an elbow. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
Murphy rolled his eyes, fighting back a smile.
The music was pounding by the time he got back to the room. Conner had taken over the aux cord, blasting something fast and loud, and half the guys were dancing like idiots in the middle of the floor. Helmets clattered, towels snapped, and laughter echoed.
Murphy laughed too, because how could you not? The energy was infectious.
Sven sidled up beside him, hair still damp, tugging on a hoodie. “You heading out with us tonight? A couple of the guys are hitting West Side Pub.”
Murphy shook his head, tucking his gear back into his bag. “Nah.”
“Come on,” Sven pressed. “We’ll get a table.”
Murphy zipped the bag shut and slung it over his shoulder. “Not tonight.”
Sven gave him a look, one brow cocked, but didn’t push.
Murphy just smiled, keeping it to himself. Because the truth was simple, he had somewhere much better to be.
He went through the motions, a shower, clothes, quick goodbyes. But the whole time, anticipation thrummed in his veins. By the time he slid behind the wheel of his car, it was all he could do not to speed.
The city lights thinned as he drove, trading neon signs and brick apartments for quiet streets lined with snow-dusted trees. At the edge of town, he turned down a narrow road that led to a small bungalow. Quaint. Charming. Exactly the kind of place that felt like her.
He sat in his car, working up the courage to go to the door. He hadn’t been here in months. She was not expecting him, but maybe that was for the best. It would give her less time to practice her response. He knew they belonged together, and deep down she knew it too, but she just wouldn’t let herself.
She had seemed different at her parents’ house. He understood her more. Yet, as he looked at her house, there was a part of him that still worried he was getting it wrong. Maybe she would turn him away . . . but many she would let him in.
After a game like that, luck seemed to be on his side tonight. He was going to talk to her.
Murphy killed the engine, grabbed his bag, and stepped out into the cold. His heart thumped hard as he climbed the front steps and lifted his hand.
Three quick knocks.
The door opened, and there she was.
Hillary.
"Hey, Rookie, good game."
"Hey, Boss, you gonna let me in or let me freeze?" he asked, unsure of the answer.
She stepped back and held the door open. Murphy entered, slid off his shoes, and put his bag down before he wrapped his arms around Hillary and pulled her in for a kiss.
He lifted his overnight bag. “I have something for you.”
