She set the phone down, took a breath, and looked at the food plated in front of her. It enough for two, maybe three.
She simply snagged one of the plates, poured a glass of wine, and carried it into the living room. She set her laptop on the coffee table, powering it on with a press of her finger.
A working dinner.
The house felt even lonelier than it had when she first walked through the door. For the first time in a long time, she found herself thinking there had to be more. Even if that more wasn't a handsome hockey player who kissed her like she was everything, there had to be something more.
37
MURPHY
His lungs burned. Sweat stung his eyes. Every stride was a punishment he demanded of himself, each whistle from the assistant coach driving him harder down the ice. By the time they were released from drills, Murphy bent low on his stick, chest heaving.
The rest of the team filed off toward the locker room, joking, snapping towels, already thinking about hot showers.
“Murphy,” Coach Wagner’s voice cut through the haze. “My office. After you’re done.”
Murphy’s heart sank.
He nodded quickly, forcing his legs to move. Shower first. Get his head straight. He tried not to imagine all the ways this conversation could go, but his brain wasn’t making it easy. Coach’s office wasn’t where you wanted to be called, not alone.
By the time he was dressed in sweats, hair damp, stomach knotted, he made the walk down the hall and tapped lightly on the door.
“Come in.”
Coach Wagner sat behind his desk, glasses perched low on his nose as he studied a clipboard of notes. He looked up, gestured to the chair across from him.
“Sit.”
Murphy did, trying not to fidget.
Coach leaned back. “Tell me how you feel about your game right now.”
Murphy blinked. “Uh, I think I’ve been playing pretty well. Keeping my feet moving. Contributing.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Coach’s eyes narrowed. “I said, how do youfeel?”
Murphy’s throat went dry. “I . . . I feel good. I mean, I know I’ve got things to work on, but?—”
Coach set the clipboard down. “Murphy, you’re not playing like yourself. Something else going on?”
Panic spiked in Murphy’s chest.Does he know? About Hillary?
He shook his head quickly. “No. Everything’s fine.”
Coach’s gaze sharpened. “I talked to Hillary.”
Murphy’s heart stopped. His palms went clammy. He gripped the edge of the chair.Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I wanted to check in with her because I know how hard it can be when you are thrust into the spotlight, and since the concert, I understand you've had quite a few viral moments. Plus, the fans that are now seemingly everywhere you show up.”
"Yes, but it's nothing I can't handle."
Coach went on evenly. “A lot of media attention can get to a player. We can help, though—we’ve got sports therapists, PR strategies, whatever you need. No shame in leaning on the support.”
Murphy exhaled hard, relief rushing through him so fast his knees nearly gave. Hillary hadn’t said anything. Coach didn’t know.
“I can fix it,” Murphy said quickly. “I'm okay.”
