Page 30 of From Ice to Grace
Hannah leans forward, her eyes following the game on the ice. “Lindgren looks fine at least. He’s up and okay.”
“That’s not the point,” I snap, too loudly.
It doesn’t matter that Lindgren is fine. What matters is that a penalty just went unchecked, when they were keen to hand one out to Declan within the first five minutes of the game.
My gaze finds him easily, number 23, hovering at the blue line. His shoulders are hunched, his stick clutched too tightly. He saw the hit. Every muscle in his body is coiled like a spring.
“Oh no,” I say, shifting forward in my seat. My stomach twists. “Declan don’t…” I mutter quietly, knowing he can’t hear me but hoping that he does anyway.
Declan launches across the ice like a missile. He zeroes in on the defenseman who hit Lindgren, using the fact that the guy has the puck as a thin excuse. The crowd roars, but I don’t hear it properly. It’s all adrenaline now, panic burning in my chest as I inch closer to the edge of my seat.
The hit isn’t a simple check…Declan Murphy demolishes the Minnesota defenseman.
My hands fly to my mouth, and I’m on my feet. Gasps ripple through the crowd and then silence. The defenseman is down, unmoving on the ice.
The whistle shrieks through the arena and a ref skates toward Declan, his arm raised. There’s no hesitation or debate. The penalty box won’t cut it this time.
“Five-minute major penalty. Game misconduct.”
Declan doesn’t even argue. He skates toward the tunnel, chin down, shoulders stiff, jaw clenched so tightly, I can see it from here. The boos and the cheers blur together, but he doesn’t react to any of it.
Overhead, the jumbotron replays the hit, again and again. They show the hit from every possible angle…and I wish it would stop. No matter how you look at it, it’s bad.
In slow-motion, it’s clear how high Declan came up on the hit. How his shoulder clips the defenseman’s head. You can see the moment of impact, the way the other player crumples to the ice…not moving.
“What happens now?” Hannah asks, her voice quiet and unsure.
We watch as the Wild’s players help their teammate off the ice where he’ll definitely receive medical attention after a hit to the head like that.
“They’ll review it,” I murmur, knowing the outcome for Declan will be bad. “They’ll decide on a fine. Most likely a suspension with how hard that hit was.”
I turn to look behind me, toward where Melissa is sitting with her friends. She’s just now realizing something is going on. There’s a frown on her face, but not one filled with fear or worry. It borders a bit on annoyance or indifference.
It shouldn’t bother me.
He picked her to be by his side this season…I have no idea why.
She’s only watching now because she heard his name coming from the announcers. She didn’t see the way he started this game, and how he spiraled from the moment he set foot on the ice. She doesn’t see how close to the edge he’s been skating.
For some reason, I’ve noticed.
And I hate that I did.
7
DECLAN
I couldn’t sleep much after the game last night. And instead of calling Melissa, or going to a bar, I went straight to the gym. Luckily we have our own set-up at home for times like this. We always work out with the team, but sometimes having your own space at home helps for times like this. Times where I let the team down, where I’m waiting for the cloud of doom hovering above my head to erupt and soak the life out of me.
It’s been building for a while now and it’s close to breaking.
Stepping into our communal living space, I’m met with Lindgren behind the kitchen counter tossing a ready made bag of smoothie ingredients into the blender. His light hair is messy, and he’s geared to head to the gym for his own workout.
“Can I make you one too?” he asks, cracking an egg into the mixture.
Settling at the counter, I roll my shoulders, relishing in the relief in my muscles. Now they’re aching for a totally different reason than last night.
“Sure, thanks.” I watch as he grabs another pre-made bag from the fridge and tosses it into the blender with his own.
