MURPHY
Murphy couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. Not in the car, not when he walked through the arena doors, not even when he dropped his bag in the locker room.
Last night was different. Not just another stolen hookup. He’d felt it the shift, the way she’d let herself soften against him, the way her kiss had lingered like she didn’t want it to end.
They weren’t just sneaking around anymore. At least, that’s what it had felt like to him.
He tugged off his sweatshirt, already reaching for his gear when Sven’s voice cut across the room.
“Jesus, Murphy,” Sven drawled, eyebrows raised. “Somebody’s been busy.”
Murphy frowned. “What?”
Sven smirked and pointed. “Your back, man. Looks like you got mauled by a wildcat.”
Laughter rippled around the room as a couple of the other guys glanced over. Someone snapped a towel in his direction, and Cash let out a low whistle.
Murphy rolled his eyes, heat creeping up his neck, but the grin came back anyway, unstoppable. Because yeah. He knewexactly how he’d gotten those claw marks. And just thinking about it made his chest swell.
“Guess you’re not as wholesome as the internet thinks, huh?” Wes teased.
Murphy just shook his head, still smiling as he bent to lace up his skates. Let them joke. Let them chirp.
Because all he could think about was Hillary. He let himself believe—really believe—that this thing between them might be real.
The chirps in the locker room still clung to him, but once he hit the ice, it was like flipping a switch. Everything clicked. Pucks snapped off his stick, every pass hit tape, every drill felt effortless. He was dialed in, flying.
It wasn’t just hockey. It was the way he felt after last night. Hillary.
When practice wrapped, he toweled off, hair still damp as he made his way down the hall. He couldn’t help it. He had to see her.
He leaned against her doorway, knocking lightly. “Hey, Boss.”
She glanced up from her pad, eyes sharp with focus. “You’re done already?”
“Yeah.” He grinned, stepping closer. “Wanted to stop by. You know, check in, say hi.”
Before he could think better of it, he dipped down and pressed a quick kiss to her mouth. Just a brush. Just enough to feel her lips on his.
But she pulled back almost immediately, eyes darting toward her laptop. “Murphy . . . ” She sighed. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
The grin faltered. “Right. Of course. I’ll let you get back to it.”
He lingered a second longer. Hoping she’d look at him, say something, anything, but she didn’t. She didn’t even look up from her laptop.
“Well, I’m gonna go . . . ”
“See ya later,” she said in her professional voice.
He left her office with a hollow ache in his chest; something felt off.
If practice had been good, the game was even better. He was on fire, skating with confidence, reading the ice like it was second nature. He scored once, assisted twice, and by the third period, he could feel the energy buzzing through him like electricity.
From the bench, his eyes searched the sidelines. Hillary was there, as always, tablet in hand, her face set in its professional mask. No sign of the woman who had clung to him the night before, who had kissed him like it meant something.
She gave him the same nod she gave everyone else.
And he told himself it didn’t matter. As long as he kept showing up, eventually she’d see what he already knew.
