His mom blinked, then shook her head, like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “How can that be? Murphy, you are the stuff dreams are made of. And I’m not just saying that because you’re a handsome professional athlete.”
A laugh caught in his throat, bitter around the edges.
She stepped closer, her voice firm. “I’m saying that because you are a kind, good man. The kind who makes people feel safe. The kind who shows up.”
Murphy bit his lip and looked away, blinking fast against the burn in his eyes. Her words should have felt like comfort. Instead, they only sharpened the ache.
Before she could press further, someone called her name from across the rink. She stood, brushing a hand over his shoulder. “We’ll finish this conversation later.”
Murphy nodded, scooping up Patrick’s duffel bag to carry it out to the van.
The cold air outside was sharp, bracing, welcome. He sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. The moment he’d seen Hillary earlier fury had flared, but underneath it was something worse. Hurt.
He’d told her this was private. Not for PR. Not for cameras. Just his brother. Just his family. But Hillary hadn’t respected that.
The cold air bit at Murphy’s cheeks as he hefted Patrick’s bag over his shoulder and carried it toward the truck. Every breath of frosty Boston air grounded him, pulling him out of his own head.
The longer he thought about it, the more that ache in his chest burned. Why didn’t she get it? Why didn’t she respect what mattered to him? His thoughts, his feelings, they never seemed to be what she cared about. He wanted to hate her for it. Heshouldhate her for it. But he couldn’t. Not when just the sight of her had stolen his breath.
The rink doors clattered open, and his family spilled out into the night. Patrick’s laughter rang clear across the parking lot, Maddie rolled her eyes at their dad, and his mom tugged her coat tighter as she smiled at them all.
“What do you all say to a round of cheeseburgers at Vic’s Diner?” his dad asked, clapping his hands together like it was already settled.
“Yeah!” Patrick cheered, pumping his fist in the air.
Maddie smirked. “Shocking. Patrick wants food.”
Murphy laughed despite himself, shifting the bag higher on his shoulder. “I’m in.”
Because this—this warmth, this chaos, this love—was what grounded him. And for tonight, he’d soak it all in before heading back to New York, back to the noise, back to everything else.
The diner buzzed with laughter and clatter. Half the Special Olympics team had apparently decided on Vic’s, too. Patrick was already deep into a pinball battle, his cheers echoing off the metal machines. Their dad leaned in, coaching like it was a playoff game. Their sister sat nearby with a milkshake, pretending not to be impressed.
Murphy sat back in the booth, burger in front of him, watching them. He’d missed this. The normal. The ease.
His mom slid into the seat across from him, folding her hands on the table. “Why isn’t the reigning pinball champion defending his title?”
Murphy tried for a grin. “Figured I’d let Patrick bask in the glory. Don’t want to hog the spotlight.”
Her eyes narrowed the way only a mother could. “Nice try, but I know you, Murphy James. You’ve been carrying something heavy since we left the rink.”
The air between them thickened. He stared at his untouched burger, then back at his mom. She always had that uncanny ability to cut right through him.
“I’m good,” he said at first, too quickly. Then he exhaled. “Just. . . trying to figure some stuff out.”
Her hand reached across, warm and grounding on his.
His mom gave his hand a squeeze, not pressing, just letting him know she was there.
Her smile softened as she folded her hands on the table and looked at him the way only moms could, like she saw every layer he tried to bury.
“Murph,” she said quietly, “there’s something I should’ve apologized for a long time ago.”
He frowned. “What on earth would you need to apologize for?”
“I know that smile of yours,” she said, cutting him off gently. “The happy-go-lucky, nothing’s-wrong grin you give the world. I’ve seen it since you were little. And I know it’s not always real.”
He huffed a breath, caught between defensiveness and exhaustion. “Mom . . . ”
