Page 47 of From Ice to Grace
“I know,” I whisper.
I’ve always watched him play. This little cut is nothing compared to the hits he’s taken. His first season in the league he dislocated his shoulder on the ice and he was back in the third period.
“You haven’t answered my question,” he says.
“I just did.” I discard the dirty swab and open a new one. His cut doesn’t look too deep, but it’s still going to leave a mark.
“No, the other one. Why are you helping me?” he asks again, his voice quieter, yet insistent.
I can’t manage to meet his gaze, instead I continue to clean his wound, keeping my eyes trained on the cut and what needs to happen to fix it. Because, I don’t have an answer that won’t sound strange.
Because I can see that something is off.
Because God wouldn't let me leave you on that floor.
Because I want to be better, to be kind, to stop hiding behind judgment.
And maybe it needs to start with you.
When I don’t answer him, he reaches up and lowers my hand from his wound. His grip isn’t rough, just enough to force me to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry about what happened at the gala,” he whispers, his voice low and raw. “It shouldn’t have happened. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into the middle of my mess.”
The memories flick through my mind. Champagne spilling down my dress, Melissa staking her claim, the flashing cameras capturing all of it, the pity in EJ’s eyes. My throat burns with humiliation and anger. I didn’t even want to be there in the first place. Then to find out EJ only dragged me there because he felt sorry for me?
“Don’t mention it,” I say, yanking my hand free and rummaging in the kit for some anti-septic and a small bandage.
“It’s not nothing.”
“I didn’t say it was nothing, I said I don’t want to talk about it.” I grab the salve and apply it to his wound with a bit more pressure than necessary.
He winces, followed by a smile and a spark in his eyes. “I can handle your anger, Snowflake.”
The words shouldn’t make me pause, but they do. My anger and offense has been my shield when it comes to him, perhaps a way to keep a safe distance from someone like him. The fact that he can take it, or even seems to welcome it, unsettles me more than if he’d snapped back.
The corner of my mouth lifts in a smile before I can stop it.
“A second ago you were complaining about the pain? Now you’re all strong and hulked up?”
He shrugs, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “What can I say? You reminded me that I’ve gone through worse.” Then his gaze holds mine a fraction too long, the teasing fading into something else. “Besides…your anger feels a whole lot better than your silence.”
A small blush creeps across my skin, and I’m suddenly grateful that the overhead lights aren’t switched on, just the lamp in the corner.
“Are you moving?” he asks, with what I can swear is a hint of disappointment in his voice. Maybe it’s late, I’m tired and imagining it.
“Not sure yet,” I say with a shrug before carefully applying the butterfly bandage to his wound. It looks so much better. This is something I can fix, unlike the rest of him. Or me.
Getting up, I get him some pain relief and water. Before second-guessing myself, I grab a bucket and bring it along to the living area too.
“Here,” I say, handing him the medication and settling the bucket next to the couch on the floor. “Drink this and then get some sleep, Murphy.”
With a slightly awkward nod, I turn to head to my room. He grabs my hand, warmth moving through me as those golden flecked eyes fill with sincerity I’ve never seen from him before.
“Thank you, Avah.”
For a moment, I just stand there caught in his gaze. Then I squeeze his hand. “Good night, Declan.”
Turning away, I head to my room and try my best not to dwell too much on the fact that I have Declan Murphy sleeping on my couch.
