Page 104 of The Fall
“Bye.”
The line goes dead, but I keep the phone pressed to my ear for another heartbeat, two, three. The room is too quiet now, too still, as if all the air was sucked out with that goodbye. Dad’s been my constant since before I could walk, before I could hold a stick. Every game, every practice, every triumph and failure filtered through his eyes first before I could even process it myself.
I set my phone aside and lean forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
I spent a year I can’t remember becoming a man I barely recognized. Now it’s time to choose who I want to be.
Twenty-Five
The gym iswhere the grinders earn their keep.
Sweat hangs thick in the air. Hollow’s ripping through jump ropes in the corner, and Reid looks like he’s one deadlift away from an aneurysm. Hawks is mid-set in a ridiculous number of box jumps. My legs would be concrete, yet he’s still springing up, getting higher each time. Hayes is on my right, pushing out three more reps.
I’m flat on the bench, dumbbells in hand. The cold metal warms against my palms as I steady my breathing. Fifties today. Not my max, but enough that I need to focus. I plant my feet wider; the rubber mat grips beneath my sneakers. I push up, feel the strain and the tremor in my forearms. One.
Down. Slow. Control it. The dumbbells kiss the outer edges of my chest before I drive them back up. Two. My mind drifts to last night’s game. I should’ve gone top shelf instead of trying to thread the puck through the five-hole. “Focus,” I say under my breath. I’ve lost count. Five? Six? The burn is building, spreading across my pecs and into my shoulders.
Blair is here. He’s sweaty, silent, and locked in on the kettlebells in front of him like they are the weight of the world.His intensity is contagious; am I pushing hard enough? Am I doing enough? No, not yet. Not yet.
“Elbows in, Kicks.”
Hayes isn’t even looking but he knows. I catch his eye and roll my wrists to stabilize. When I finish my set and sit up, I roll my shoulders until a joint pops.
Blair grunts and completes another flawless rep. His breathing is perfect—four counts in, four counts out.
When I stand, Hawks grabs a medicine ball, and he tosses it back and forth like someone added a motor to his arms. “Race you through curls, Kicks?”
I laugh. “Sure, but don’t scream for mercy three sets in.”
“Bite me.”
We’re piled into the corner booth of a hole-in-the-wall burger joint half a mile from the rink. Hayes orders a double melt, double bacon, extra everything, “and a beer.” The others follow along, ordering burgers and melts and chicken parmesan… and everyone orders a beer, too.
When it’s my turn to order, I hesitate.
“Sprite,” I say, and you know what? It’s easier than I expected. No one blinks. The waitress nods and scribbles it down, already turning to take Blair’s order. I’ve been building this moment up in my head for weeks, expecting everyone to stop and stare when I didn’t order a beer, but the world keeps spinning.
It’s been nineteen days since the bar in Columbus. Not that I’m counting.
I’m definitely counting.
Hawks is telling some story about a girl he met at a bar last weekend, gesturing with a mozzarella stick. I half-listen, nodding at the right moments, but my mind keeps circling back to my Sprite order.
“Hey bud,” Hayes says, nudging my shoulder. “You with us?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I shake my head, forcing myself back to the conversation. “Thinking about practice.”
The waitress returns with our drinks, sliding my Sprite in front of me. The bubbles rise to the surface, popping one by one. Hayes toasts his beer against my soda, and I hold that Sprite like it’s a trophy.
The season’s barely cracked open and every game so far has been a battle. My thirty-day clock is tick-tocking.
The ice calls to me after everyone else has cleared out. My skates cut fresh grooves through the Zamboni’s perfect sheet, and I push harder, crossovers tight around the face-off circle. This is where I sort through the noise in my head: the missed opportunities, the turnovers, the split-second hesitations that cost us goals. I bank a turn and settle into the blaze, sink deeper into my flow, into that perfect place where pain becomes progress.
One more lap. Then another. That’s the only secret: keep moving.
In-flight movies mean it’s blackout mode for most of the guys, especially after our four-game stretch across three time zones. I don’t sleep as easily. My legs are too sore, too stiff, and eventhough we have room to spread out, and these aren’t coach seats, no plane is built for quads like ours. I wish the same dead air and white noise could lull me, but my thoughts hum so fucking loudly.
We’ve been dropping games for every point we pick up. One step forward, two steps back. The guys are trying—we’re all trying—but the chemistry isn’t settled yet. Maybe tomorrow’s game will turn things around. Maybe I’ll finally find my groove. But tonight, I am adrift, counting losses instead of days sober.
