Page 28 of Power Play with My Brother's Irish Friends

“Tons.” Seeing her ripped my heart wide open. “Took a nice crack to the head. No concussion, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“You have a cut.” She motioned at her own head. “You might need stitches.”

I sat up with a groan. “I’m fine.” The lie caught in the back of my throat when a dizzying sensation made me feel like I’d spun around a million times in a whirligig. Warm blood ran down my face and dripped from my chin. “Head wounds bleed a lot.”

“Got a lot of education on that, have you?” She arched a brow. “Come on. You’re not playing anymore until I’ve taken a good look.” A cold, calculating look hardened her eyes. “Don’t even think about arguing. You have the first game of the season in a week. You’re not sitting out because you tried to macho man your way out of an exam.” She stood.

I followed her up with another groan and a desperate look at Austin.

He held up both hands in a show of surrender. “She’s the one with medical training. And she’s right. That cut looks nasty.”

I grumbled and removed my helmet, hissing my way through the stinging pain when it scraped over the cut. “The game of my country has betrayed me.” I flung my helmet aside. I’d been feeling nostalgic for Ireland, and the game had gotten to me. The thrill of competition pushed me too far, ignited the heated blood of my country. I fisted a hand and raised it toward Scott when he ran up and stooped beside me. He held out a gloved hand that I clasped and let him pull me to my feet. The nausea increased, but I choked it down. No fucking way I’d hurl my guts up in Miranda’s presence. I stiffened my spine and strode off the field. “Let’s get this over with.”

Her quick steps kept pace with my longer legs. The game resumed behind me, and I yanked off my gloves, leaving a trail of gear behind me as I marched to the house. A rush of cold air chilled the sweat on my face. The cut stung, and I raised a hand again.

“Don’t.” Miranda held my wrist with both of hers. “Let me look at it first.” Her grip tightened, and she led me along the first floor, around the side of the stairs, and into the nearest bathroom that Austin had remodeled into a decadent display of white and chrome. “Sit.” One hand pushed on my shoulder, guiding me onto the loveseat tucked into the corner.

“You don’t have to do this. I’m fine.” I tried again to make her leave.

Wrong choice. She literally dug her heels into the floor and leaned over me. Cool fingers caressed my face, lingering over my eye, and trailing down my cheek. Water gushed from the sink, and a cool rag was pressed onto my eyebrow. “It’s not as bad as I thought. Still might need stitches, but it’s not torn open.”

“So I’ll live?” I quipped the snark at her with the brutal efficiency that made me a terror on the ice.

The rag pressed harder, and another joined it, sweeping back and forth over my face. “Keep your eye closed. I need to clean this up.” No response to my sarcasm other than to take care of me, to treat me like I mattered.

My hands twitched up from my lap, my body reacting before my mind caught up. I snatched my hands back down before they locked onto her hips and pulled her down for a kiss I had no right to take. “Thank you.”

The rag stopped moving, and her body shifted until she appeared within sight of my right eye. “You’re welcome.” Warm. Soothing. She looked at me with the kind of goodness that I’d never deserved.

“Almost done?” Patrick’s voice boomed from close by.

Miranda dropped both rags into the sink and tipped my head back. “You’re going to have a nasty bruise.”

“Ah, he’ll be fine. Got a head like a boulder.” Patrick rubbed his head where I’d elbowed him more than once in the past. “I should know.”

Miranda shot a glare at Patrick. “He should have a full medical evaluation. Just to make sure he’s okay to skate.” She cupped my chin in one hand and turned my face toward Patrick. “Another inch.”

I touched the sore spot on my eyebrow, finally realizing why everyone had panicked when Miranda stepped to the side and I saw myself in the mirror. I’d almost lost my eye. A two-inch cut gashed across my eyebrow. A slow trickle of blood seeped down, nesting in the creases beside my eye and trailing down, down, down, to slide over my jaw. A knot puffed the skin out around my eye, the swelling causing my eyelid to droop.

Patrick rolled his eyes. “Ah, he’s just trying to keep you all to himself.” He winked at her. “I’d have done the same thing, but he beat me to it.”

“Not funny, Patrick.” The cold, professional tone straightened Patrick and put a contrite look in his eyes.

“You’re right. Sorry.” He cleared his throat and approached us. “Why don’t you go back to the party. I’ll call our guy and have him check Duncan.”

Disbelief rested heavy on her features, her mouth twisting into a scowl. “I’m fine right here.”

“And as long as you’re around, Duncan will lie about how he feels. He’ll be trying to prove how tough and brave he is, when he needs to be honest about his pain.” Patrick knew me too well.

I hated that he called me out, but a part of me appreciated him cutting in.

“Go on.” Patrick guided her toward the door with a hand on her back. “I’ll make sure he’s okay.”

“Promise.” Arms locked, shoulders stiff, she glared up at Patrick. “Promise you’ll take care of him and not let anyone brush this off just because you have a game next week.”

“On my honor as an Irishman.” Patrick fisted a hand over his heart. “I won’t let him come to any harm under my watch.”

It was enough to satisfy her. I waited until she’d walked out of hearing distance before I released the groan of pain and slumped forward with my elbows on my knees. One more week before Miranda returned to New York. I missed her already, and I saw her everyday. How much worse would it be when she left for good?

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