Page 46 of From Ice to Grace
I made myself a little bed by the window where there’s a nice view of my car parked outside. I haven’t slept, keeping an eye on the car, hoping that he’s alright in there.
What if he’s cold? Or not breathing?
The thought hits harder the longer I sit there. Maybe I should’ve just taken him to the ER. Or maybe I should’ve called Lucas or any of his teammates. I shouldn’t have brought him here…what if something happens to him?
I shift beneath the blankets, my pulse quickening as different scenarios flick through my mind. What if he chokes? Or what if he’s got a concussion?
I try to convince myself he’s fine. He’s huge, a whole six-foot-something solid man of muscle, whose taken hits on the ice that have left other players out for the season. But the more I think about it, the worse it gets.
“Oh my goodness,” I mumble, tossing the blankets to the side. “Father God, I need that man to be alive in there. Conscious would be good too.”
Grabbing my coat, I shove my arms through the sleeves before stepping outside with my car keys clenched in my hand. Marching down the steps, a silent prayer reaches toward Heaven.
Please, Father, please. Let this all work out for good.
When the car door opens, so do Declan’s eyes. They’re filled with confusion as the overhead light switches on. His eyes are red and the cut on his head doesn’t look so good. The blood has dried a bit and now his hair is matted together over the wound.
Relief moves through me. Thank you, God, he’s breathing.
The smell hits next.
“You really puked in my car.” Holding my hand up to my nose, I step away to take a breath. “Nice one, Murphy.”
He rubs one hand over his face, before wincing as he hits his cut.
“What happened?” he asks, his voice gruff and groggy. “Where am I?”
Sighing, I hold my breath and duck back into the car, holding out my hand. “Come on, big guy.”
I help him up, loop my arm through his and guide him inside. His steps are uneven but steady enough that I just have to keep him upright. The couch by the window still has the makings of my makeshift bed, so it’ll have to do. He settles on top of the blankets in a semi-upright position. His dress shirt is dirty and stained, his pants wrinkled. His dark hair is ruffled and he leans back against the couch, on the brink of sleep.
He looks nothing like the man I’ve come to admire over the years. Or at least, the man whose game and skill I’ve admired. Now, he’s going through something that I can’t explain.
Without thinking, I reach out and brush the hair from his forehead. It sticks to his wound, tugging slightly, and his eyes open suddenly. With him this close, I can see the golden flecks I saw before.
I stare into the depths of his eyes for a second longer, wondering what has him running…what has him hellbent on destroying himself. He shifts and the spell breaks. My gaze flicks to the cut above his eye which needs attention.
Swallowing, I move away from him, heading to the kitchen to find my first-aid kit.
“Why are you helping me?” Declan’s voice comes from the living room as I rummage in my cabinets for the kit.
I don’t actually know why.
After what happened tonight at the gala, I shouldn’t want to help him. It should make me feel justified in leaving him on the bar floor and turning my back. But I couldn’t. Because in my heart I know helping is the right thing to do. Nobody should be left alone when they’re facing something difficult, when they’re bleeding or barely standing.
Not even Declan Murphy.
It’s been clear for a while now that he’s going through something. And instead of helping him, I judged, I quipped, I used him as my verbal punching bag…while everyone else sat back and waited for him to implode.
Heading back into the living area, I sit on the couch next to him. His head is leaning on the back of the couch, his eyes not leaving me for a second.
The living room is silent, save for the noise of the city filtering in from outside, and Declan’s slow and steady breathing as he continues to watch me. Opening the alcohol swabs, I turn to him and lightly dab at the wound above his eye.
He winces and pulls away.
“Don’t be such a big baby.” Reaching out, I dab at his cut again in an attempt to thoroughly clean it. “You’ve had worse than this.”
“How would you know?” he asks, a small frown between his eyes.
