Page 44 of From Ice to Grace
AVAH
Mike called a while ago.
Actually, he called EJ. But since I practically ran away with his phone, I’m the one who answered. After the humiliation of having champagne drip down my dress while reporters took pictures of it, I didn’t realize I still had EJ’s phone in my purse.
I didn’t plan on answering anything, not after the look of pity on EJ’s face when he looked at me. But when it rang, I felt a strong tug to answer it. Mike sounded very worried about Declan. He said he needed someone, it was urgent, and he didn’t want to call a cab. After wrestling with the thought for almost a minute, I felt I had to do the right thing.
You had to come.
Which is why I am now kneeling on the floor, next to a semi-conscious Declan Murphy.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. His head lolls to the side, giving me a perfect view of the bloody state of his eye. It’s already swollen, the bruise starting to purple beneath his skin.
Without thinking too long and hard about it, I lift his head into my lap. The floor can’t be very clean, and the last thing he needs is some kind of infection.
“Mike, I need ice,” I call out.
The jukebox is humming low in the background, a few whispers and clinking glasses filling the air as everyone seems to be going back to their business. At least there are no cameras.
My gaze drops to the man in my lap. He’s radiating warmth and bourbon. I never thought I’d be here, in this position…with him. He looks nothing like the strong defenseman who is a force to be reckoned with on the ice.
Instead, he looks defeated.
“What happened,” I murmur, tucking the strand of his dark hair away from his wound.
A guy with a clenched fist steps closer. He looks like he wants to rip Declan out of my grip and finish what he obviously started. He moves closer, his boots scuffing on the floor.
“Can’t you see he’s down?” I ask, holding my hand out. “What do you want to do? Kill him?”
“If he ever comes near my girl again,” he grits out, his eyes holding no sympathy. “I definitely will.”
Looking behind him, the woman is holding a jacket around her, the fabric of her dress ripped and hanging from beneath it.
My stomach twists. What happened this time, Murphy?
“I’ll give him the message.” I scoff, returning my attention to Declan.
The guy seems upset that his revenge was short-lived, but he takes his girl and heads out of the bar without another word. If the smell coming off Declan is anything to go off, he would’ve put up more of a fight if he didn’t have an entire bottle of Bourbon inside of him. Since he’s the best defenseman I’ve ever seen on the ice, I know he can stand his own in a fight.
Although, he wasn’t standing when I came into the bar.
Sometimes I can’t help but wonder how the Holy Spirit works. The urgency to listen is inside of you, but not always the understanding of it. I know it’s right to be here right now, it’s what any kind human being would do for another.
But the fact that it’s me…and it’s him…makes this a bit harder to understand.
Declan groans softly, turning his head toward me. His eyes are still closed, and the wound is really starting to look angry.
“Mike, where’s that ice?” I ask again just as he comes around the bar counter, handing me a towel filled with ice.
As soon as I apply it to the cut, Declan winces, his eyes opening slightly. Being this close to him, they have a totally different color than I expected. I just thought he had dark eyes, black like his soul sometimes, but now I can see they are deep and brown, with flecks of gold littered around his iris.
“Snowflake,” he manages. His face splits in a sudden frown, before he winces again, his cut not liking the frowning. “What are you doing here?”
“Beats me,” I say, putting the ice to his cut again. “Can you stand?”
“Sure,” he smirks, the dimple in his cheek deepening. “I’m the best stander there is.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. The sound catches me offguard—I can’t remember when I’ve ever laughed at anything he’s said.
