Chapter 10
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.
“Show me, big guy.”
“Aren’t I doing it already?” he asks, looking down at his feet, which are still perfectly horizontal on the very dirty bar floor.
Yes, we need to get off this floor.
“Mike, I’m going to need some help getting this goon in the car,” I call over the counter.
“Hey, who are you calling a goon?” he asks, grunting as he attempts to get up.
Mike comes around the bar and helps him up. Although I try my best, I’m not very successful in moving him. Declan is solid muscle and dead weight all in one. Strong enough to knock a man flat on the ice, yet broken enough that I can barely get him off the floor.
“My car is just outside,” I say. “Maybe I should take him to the emergency room, just to be safe.”
“No,” Declan says, suddenly fighting against me and Mike. “No hospitals. Then it’s news. And everyone’s already…it’s bad.” He chuckles and then frowns. “No hospitals. No press.”
I should insist. I should take him anyway, to make sure everything is alright. But the rawness in his voice makes me pause. He doesn’t need another headline, another speculation making things worse for him. As much as I don’t want to, I understand.
With Mike’s help we manage to get Declan outside and into the back seat of the car before slamming the door shut behind him. His large frame is sprawled across the back, looking too big and out of place.
“His keys,” Mike says, handing me a bunch of keys on a Boston keychain. “He might want to get his truck in the morning.”
I nod, taking it from him.
“You’re going to be alright with him?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I look through the back window. Declan’s eyes are closed, his chest rising and falling heavily. “I’ll leave him there until he sobers up.”
“Aren’t you worried he’ll puke in your car?” Mike asks as he backs away, back to the bar.
“I wasn’t. But thanks for reminding me.”
Mike chuckles. “You’re a good one, Avah. Too good for the likes of him.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
Mike waves as he heads back into the bar and I get behind the steering wheel. Turning on the AC and opening the windows slightly, I pray that the smell of bourbon and smoke won’t stay in the car for the rest of its days.
“Where are you taking me, Snowflake?” Declan groans from the backseat. “You don’t even know where I live.”
I hadn’t thought that part through. I just know I had to help him.
Maybe I could call his teammates. I have Lucas’s number.
But looking at Declan in the back of my car…
I can’t bring myself to do it. To expose his moment of weakness to his teammates feels like another hit this man doesn’t need right now. Not after the suspension.
“Where do you live, Declan?” I ask over my shoulder.
“With Barney,” he slurs, then chuckles. “And not the purple one. The giant one from Minnesota.”
Great. Another teammate. And a teammate who Declan should be mentoring. Although this might be a lesson in what not to do.
His head rolls to the side before he tucks his hand beneath his face. After a few seconds, soft snores come from the backseat.
I grip the steering wheel tight, the city lights flashing through the windscreen. His presence presses in from the back—his smell, his weight, the fact that it’s him.
With a heavy sigh, I merge into the right lane and head to my apartment.
Why, God? Why are you throwing him into my path?
* * *
Declan is still out there in my car.
Two hours have crawled by since I picked him up at the bar.
The street outside is quiet now, the streetlights filtering in through the window.
By the time we got to my place, he was out cold.
I couldn’t wake him, and there’s no way I could carry him into my apartment.
So I opted for a cracked window and a silent prayer that he would be alright in there.
I might want to kill Declan sometimes, but I would never actually do it.
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.”