Page 138 of The Fall
I stand even though there’s still time left. The ref glances over, but doesn’t say anything. Maybe he saw the hit. Maybe he understands why my knuckles are bleeding, why I can’t sit still while Blair’s in the bowels of this arena getting his pupils checked and his neck examined, answering the same questions over and over:What’s your name? What day is it? Do you know where you are?
0:32... 0:31... 0:30...
Someone bangs on the glass behind my head but I don’t turn. My eyes track the digital numbers counting down.
The penalty box attendant reaches for the door handle.
0:02... 0:01... 0:00.
I feel Blair’s absence like a missing rib; his shadow should split from mine when I take the ice. I explode out of the box; Hawks threads his pass through three bodies, the puck sliding flat and fast toward my tape.
The rubber kisses my blade as a defenseman clips me. I absorb the contact, legs churning harder. Another defender converges from my right, stick extended, trying to lift mine. Too late—I’m already gone. The blue line passes beneath my skates; I have open ice and a breakaway.
My quads burn as I load my weight onto my back foot. Everything lines up the way Blair taught me.Feel the torque build from your edges up,he said, his hand on my lower back, adjusting my stance. I pull my stick back, way back, loading every ounce of fury and fear and love into the wind-up.
My blade meets rubber with a crack like thunder?—
And my shaft shears apart in my grasp, the head of my stick cartwheeling toward the boards. The follow-through yanks me sideways, empty air where my blade should be. But I got the shot off; the goalie tries to get his pad on my puck, but it rockets past his blocker and slams into the twine.
I raise what’s left of my broken stick overhead, then toss it down, half-staggering to the corner where the guys are already charging. They crash into me, slapping my shoulders and screaming in my ears.
But I don’t hear their shouts. I only hear the crack of the boards when Blair went down.
Blair’s waiting for me when I come off the ice after the final horn.
He’s out of his gear and dressed in shorts and T-shirt, and he’s got a hard look in his eyes. My heart leaps as he jerks his chin down the hallway, separating us from the rest of the team.
I follow him around the corner. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” He stops walking and turns to face me. I’m still in my gear and skates, but when he squares up to me, we’re still eye-to-eye. “Doc cleared me.”
“Good. That’s—that’s good.”
My voice catches on the last word. My hands want to reach for him, to check for myself. Take his chin, trace the spot where his head snapped forward, but I hold back.
“What the fuck was that out there?” Blair growls.
My rage flares up again. “He boarded you. He could have broken your neck.”
His eyes narrow. “I don’t need you to fight my battles.”
“Too bad.” My hands shake with leftover adrenaline, the tape on my knuckles frayed and spotted with blood. “Nobody runs you, not while I’m on the ice. When someone targets you, they target me too.”
“That’s not your job.”
“You think I’m supposed to watch you go down like that and do nothing? What if?—”
“You could have broken your hand, or worse. And again: it’s not your fucking job.”
“Then what is?”
“Staying on the ice,” Blair says, his voice dropping to a hiss. “You don’t drop gloves because someone messes with me—you score. You make them pay on the scoresheet. You thread impossible passes and you make them suck wind trying to chase you. You finish chances no one else sees coming. You make it impossible for them out there. Youdon’tbrawl like you’re a fourth-liner, because you’renot. You play beautiful, brilliant hockey;that’syour job.”
He’s right and wrong at the same time. He’s describing the player I’ve always been, but that player disappeared the second Blair crumpled. “Beautiful hockey doesn’t mean shit if you’re not there.”
The hallway is too small, the fluorescent lights too harsh. There’s a red mark high on his cheekbone from where his helmet pressed during the hit.
“You’re not a fighter,” he snaps. The scent of medical tape hangs in the air around him, and a tremor in his breath says the hit rattled him more than he’s letting on. “Leave the fighting to me. That’smyjob. I’m the one who buries guys, and I’m the one who puts them through the glass if they fuck withyou.”
