The sight hit Hillary harder than she expected.
The air in her chest turned sharp, almost painful, as she sat frozen in the bleachers. The difference between his world and hers stretched wide and unforgiving. His life was stitched together with love, teasing, and safety nets. Hers had been cold, brittle, an endless performance where affection was rationed and approval was conditional.
Watching Murphy with his family felt like standing on the outside of a warm, glowing house in the dead of winter, nose pressed to the glass, knowing she’d never be invited inside.
As she watched, it only solidified her resolve.
She was making the right decision.
She would never deserve something this pure. Murphy did. Of course, he did. She’d done nothing but hurt him. She saw it in his eyes every time she pushed him away, every time she pretended the thing between them was nothing.
The players were called out, and the first puck dropped. The stands erupted, and the sound reverberated through the small rink like a thunderclap. The game wasn’t professional, wasn’t polished, but the joy on the ice was contagious. Athletes skated with grins, their families cheering louder than any NHL crowd.
Hillary felt her throat tighten.
This—this was what it looked like when sports gave back. When the game wasn’t about contracts and endorsements and curated images but about joy. Community. Belonging.
She hugged her coat tighter, her heart heavy but her brain already shifting into gear.
While she would never suggest Murphy share more of his personal life than he wanted, maybe this was something the organization could lean into. A partnership with the Special Olympics in Glendale. The way these kids lit up, the way their families lit up, the joy on the ice and in the crowd was worth it.
If she couldn’t have Murphy, maybe she could at least honor the light he brought to the world.
As the game came to an end, Hillary tried to slip out unnoticed. She ducked into the bathroom, gave herself a moment to breathe, and told herself she’d done what she came to do. She had seen Murphy, seen the joy. That was enough.
But when she stepped back into the hallway, she collided with someone solid.
A very tall someone.
She turned and froze.
Murphy.
For half a heartbeat, his face softened into a smile, that familiar warmth sparking in his hazel eyes. Then it vanished, his brow furrowing, his mouth tightening.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp, laced with an edge she’d never heard from him before.
“I just wanted to see—” she stammered.
“I told you this was private. Not for PR.”
Her heart slammed in her chest, shame pricking hot in her throat. She opened her mouth to explain, but before she could, a blur of hockey gear barreled into Murphy.
“Murphy!” the man shouted, nearly knocking him off balance.
“Hey buddy! That was a great game.” Murphy’s scowl vanished in an instant, replaced with open delight. “You got a goal.”
“I did! A great goal!” The young man beamed, his voice sing-songy, his grin impossibly wide.
Hillary blinked, noticing the resemblance. The same hazel eyes and sandy brown hair. The same smile, unguarded and bright. Murphy’s brother.
The young man turned to her suddenly, curiosity shining. “Is this your girlfriend?”
Her heart lodged in her throat.
Murphy’s hand flexed at his side, his gaze darting between her and his brother. The question hung there, heavy and impossible, waiting for someone—anyone—to answer.
Before Murphy could answer, the rest of his family swept in like a tide.
