Page 35 of ICED
We’re up by three goals by the second period. Murphy’s in rare form, fast, smooth, playing like he’s got nothing to prove but everything to show. The crowd loves him. Hell, we all do when he’s like this.
Then he scores.
It’s textbook. Ollie threads it low between two defensemen, and Murphy picks it up, turns on a dime, wrists it clean past the goalie’s glove side.
The arena erupts.
Murphy doesn’t celebrate like usual. No fist pump. No leap into the boards.
Instead, he skates straight to the plexiglass, slows to a glide, and presses his glove to his mouth before blowing a kiss to the stands.
I follow his line of sight. Sophie’s there, front row, with a very visible baby bump under her Raptors hoodie. She’s beaming. Glowing, actually. One hand over her stomach, the other raised in a wave. She looks like the whole damn world just handed her joy on a platter.
Murphy taps the glass with his glove once, then turns back toward the bench. Calm. Grounded.
I don’t know why it hits me the way it does.
Maybe because I’ve been skating around in circles forweeks, trying to pretend I’m fine. Maybe because every time I lace up, I pretend this game is enough. That the ice is my whole life.
But tonight, for the first time, it doesn’t feel like enough.
Because Murphy has Sophie. Dylan’s got Mia, and Ollie’s practically curled around some girl in a miniskirt up in the VIP box, probably getting her number written on his stick tape.
And me?
I’ve got my shoulder brace. A lumpy protein bar. And the faint memory of Maya’s laugh lingering like sugar on my skin.
I shouldn’t care. I’ve never been the guy who plays for the crowd. Never looked for signs in the bleachers or counted on anyone to be there when the buzzer sounds.
But tonight, it stings.
When the final whistle blows and we leave the ice with a 5–1 win, I force the grin on my face. High-fives, helmet bumps, towel slaps. The boys are buzzing, loud and cocky, and the locker room is a thrum of victory.
“You moved good out there,” Dylan says, dragging his pads off one by one.
“Shoulder held up?” Coach asks as he walks past.
“Feels fine,” I lie. It’s stiff, but manageable.
Murphy sinks onto the bench next to me, still flushed from the game, hair curling damp over his forehead.
“She made it,” he says, nudging me.
“Sophie?”
“Yeah. Told her not to if she was tired, but,” He shrugs, and there’s something soft in his voice I’ve never heard before. “She didn’t want to miss it.”
I nod, but it’s hard to keep the smile on my face.
Because no one came for me.
Not that they should’ve. I haven’t earned that. Haven’t opened myself up enough to let someone in. Not properly.And Maya’s got enough on her plate without worrying about showing up to a rink full of strangers just to watch me knock people over.
Still.
I hang back after the others start peeling out toward the showers, feeling the high of the game slip away like steam off the ice.
Murphy glances at me while unlacing his skates. “You good?”
