Page 116 of The Fall
“So, what’s missing?” Coach asks. Hawks has fallen asleep in the second row. Hayes is stretched and sprawled, taking up three spaces with his spider legs and arms. Blair is in the back corner, tucked against the wall.
“The weak side. We’re not shading far enough,” I blurt out.
Heads swivel toward me. My heart rate kicks up. Coach raises an eyebrow at me.
I sit straighter in my chair. The words are already out there. No taking them back now. “Their left winger keeps drifting. If we don’t shade over, he’s got all day to set up.”
Coach’s marker taps against his palm. Once. Twice. The sound echoes in the quiet room. Hawks stirs but doesn’t wake. Hayes shifts, his knee knocking into the chair in front of him.
From the back corner, movement catches my eye. Blair uncrosses his arms and leans forward.
“Kicks is right. We’re leaving space.” That’s Blair, speaking up for me. “Let’s force their playmaker inward. He’s got less space to work with if we own the perimeter.”
Coach looks back at me. “Kicks?”
I clear my throat. “If we pull our wingers in tighter on the forecheck, we can funnel their breakout exactly where we want it.”
“That works,” Coach says, nodding. “Anyone want to challenge that?”
The room stays quiet. I risk a glance back, and sure enough, Blair’s eyes are on me.
“Good. Because Kicks is right.” Coach nods to me. “Well done.”
“You’re thinking too much.”
“I’m not—” I start, but Blair’s already shaking his head. His eyes burn cobalt today, a glint of heat submerged in winter frost.
“That move you keep messing up.” He gestures loosely toward the net where I sent another shot wide. “You’re overcomplicating it.”
My shoulders drop, and I adjust my grip on the stick, sweat making the tape slick under my gloves. The rink is colder where he’s standing, as if he pulls all the warmth toward him and leaves me in the wake of it.
He glides closer, one push off his back skate that brings him into my space, close enough that coconut and sea salt cut through the sharp bite of ice and rubber. He takes the puck from between my skates with a casual hook of his blade.
“Watch.”
The puck slides from his stick to mine, and I track the subtle shift of his wrists, the way his whole body flows through the motion instead of fighting against it.
“Your turn.”
I mirror what he showed me, but the puck wobbles, catches wrong on my blade. My jaw tightens.
“Stop.” His voice drops lower. “You’re holding your breath.”
I hadn’t realized. Air rushes out of my lungs, fogging between us.
“Better.” He circles behind me, and I track the scrape of his blades even when I can’t see him. “Now try.”
This time when I move, something clicks. The puck obeys, sliding exactly where I want it.
“One more thing.” He reaches out, adjusts the angle of my elbow with two fingers. “Keep that tucked when you release.”
I nod, not trusting what might come out if I open my mouth.
“Run it again,” he says, skating backward to give me room. He claps his stick against the ice, and when I fire off my next shot, it soars into the net’s top corner.
“There you go.” He doesn’t smile, but something is there when our eyes lock. “Again.”
The plane vibrates beneath us, white noise humming through the cabin as we follow the coast north to New York. Most of the guys are asleep or zoned out with their headphones.
