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Murphy
Four Years Later
“To Murphy and Sabrina.” Seven crystal glasses containing twenty-five-year-old Macallan whiskey are clinked in celebration.
We’ve rented out an entire resort on the island of Kauai, so we can guarantee our privacy from prying eyes and the nosey press. In less than an hour, Sabrina Cabot is going to become my wife, and I can’t wait.
The warm ocean breeze blows through the open doors of the hut we’re in while the finishing touches are being placed on the ceremony space.
My future father-in-law places his crystal tumbler down on the table and slaps me on the back. “I’m going to go to Sabrina. Would you like me to relay a message for you, son?”
“No, thank you, Harrison.” I never thought I’d be calling the President of the United States by his first name, but when you’ve been living with his daughter for over three years, he tends to insist on it.
Looking around at my family, I can’t believe we’re all here. All together. There was a crazy complication with Coop this week, and for a hot minute, I thought he wasn’t going to make it, but he did. Sabrina wanted something small and intimate. Pretty sure she broke her mother’s black heart when she refused a White House wedding and insisted on a small island ceremony, far away from all of the cameras, with just our family and closest friends.
I was sold when she showed me the private huts on stilts over the water and promised we could have two weeks of uninterrupted relaxation once we said “I do.”
This last year has been a constant practice in controlled chaos. Sabrina was right, her father ran for President and won. I had no idea what went into getting elected to any office, let alone the most powerful one in the country, until I was on the inside looking out.
It was intense.
He was sworn in a few months before Sabrina graduated from Kroydon University. My girl was on the fast-track, and between extra classes and her kick-ass internships, she did it in three years instead of four. It wasn’t easy when she moved down to Washington, DC, to start law school at Georgetown University. After over two years of going to bed together every night, we barely saw each other that fall until football season ended. That Christmas, she agreed to be my wife when I asked her under the mistletoe at the White House.
It’s a crazy thing having your own Secret Service agents, but we both have our own teams now. I’ll never get used to it.
The following spring, I was drafted to the Baltimore Sentinels. I asked my stepfather once if he had anything to do with me getting drafted close to Sabrina, and he just smiled and walked away. I don’t really care how I got there, I was there. I moved into Sabrina’s brownstone faster than you can say football.
Finally.
We were back together. She had one more year to go until she finished law school, and I knew my first year in the pros would be like nothing I’d ever seen, so we agreed to a small ceremony in June before training camp. Now, here we are, less than an hour away from that moment, and I’m ready to drag her out to the minister and get this shit moving. I want my ring on her finger and my name added to hers.
She asked me if I would care if she hyphenated her name.
Sabrina Cabot-Murphy.
I told her as long as she was my wife, she could call herself whatever she wanted. I just wanted her to legally be mine. I’d been waiting for it since my freshman year of college.
Maybe longer.
That brings me to this moment, standing here with my best friends, stepfather, and stepbrothers with me. We’re all dressed similarly in khaki linen pants and white linen shirts with the sleeves rolled up.
No shoes.
No ties.
Relaxed.
That was what Sabrina wanted. She didn’t want fussy. She didn’t want stress. Only our family and closest friends here to celebrate with us.
“Murph.” Cooper claps my shoulder. “Who would have thought you’d be the first of the four of us to get married and make an honest woman out of your girl?”
My lips tip up. He’s still breaking Brady’s balls.
“What the hell, little brother?” Declan glares at Coop. “Don’t I count? I made an honest woman out of my woman.”
“Sorry, Dec.” Coop throws his arm around Dec’s shoulders. “Doesn’t count if you knocked her up first.”
“Watch it, asshole. That’s my wife.”
