Page 15 of The Fall
Concussions—recurring.
His eyes linger on mine the longer I’m silent, and he worries his lower lip between his teeth. “You sure you’re okay? Calle’s worried sick, man.”
I look back at the broken stick, tracing the jagged edges with my eyes, searching for the memory that belongs. Something—there’s something there—but I can’t find it. Instead, I drop my eyes to the carpet, to a pile of ice shavings melting off Hayes’s skate blades.
Hayes doesn’t say anything. He sniffs, scrubs one hand across his jaw. “Look, if you need anything, I’m here for you, yeah? I’m more than Calle’s wingman.” His hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes.
I wish I remembered his friendship because I think I would love to turn to him and pour everything out. All of my fears, all of my terrors, the unknowns and the questions and the missing pieces. I’m lost in this dark, and I wish so much that there was someone I could reach out to, someone I wouldn’t break in half if I admitted the truth. Someone whose heart wouldn’t shatter if I said, “I don’t remember you at all.”
But all I’ve got is this. The darkness, my fear, and my sense that something is wrong, that something is very, very wrong.
And now, this broken stick, a splinter in my subconscious. The tape on the blade is frayed, game-worn, smudged with rubber. Game-used. Which game? When?
Remember.
Names, dates, faces. They swirl around me, disconnected images. The feel of ice beneath my skates, the satisfying thunk of a well-placed shot, the roar of the crowd after I—amazingly—score a goal. I remember the sting of a blocked shot. Skating so fast it feels like the wind is on my face. The bone-jarring impact of a check into the boards.
But details, specifics, real memories—they all remain frustratingly out of reach.
“Kicks?”
“I’m good.” I shake myself and turn back to Hayes in time to see Blair finally entering the room. He fist-bumps our teammates as he passes and barks out a laugh to something Fischer says. At his locker, he strips out of his shorts and his practice jersey and pads, leaving everything in a sweat-soaked heap at his stall. Then he searches the room, eyes laser-bright, until he finds me. The edge he’s holding on to, the tension in his jaw and temples, releases.
I smile, and he smiles back.
Hayes squeezes my shoulder again and turns to his skates. I catch him smothering a grin as he works his laces. He saw that. He saw that, and I think he knows about Blair and me. And… that’s good.
Blair’s gaze is relentless, holding me captive as he crosses the room. He doesn’t have time or space for anyone else anymore. He’s focused on me.
“Come on, Kicks,” Hayes says, his tone teasing when Blair reaches us. “Let’s get you moving. Old man Calle here’s got to stretch those hammies.”
Blair rolls his eyes. Hayes beams up at him. Blair shakes his head and turns to me like he’s sayingsee this shit I put up with?Like I’m in on the joke and this is what we do.
The best friends a guy could wish for. #BFF
Remember.
Blair leads me down a narrow hallway, shoulder to shoulder, until he pushes open a door that leads to a dark and unused training room.
A solid click seals us in, alone, in a bubble of shadow and stillness. I try to map the space around me in the dim light of the overheads, turned down soft and low.
The room is small. In the center, a thick mat cushions the floor. There are kettlebells and a set of weights in one corner.The lights pool on the center mat but shadow the rest of the room.
Blair is already on the mat. He’s graceful as he drops to his knees. He stretches, his arms over his head, and then folds forward. His spine releases with a series of pops as he breathes deeply. “Come on, babe. Let’s do this. You’ll feel better.”
I follow him, folding down to my knees. I’m going to embarrass myself, surely, because I have never stretched the way Blair is. This is yoga and Pilates and rehab work all in one, and the most I’ve ever done is the basic kind of “don’t rip your legs off” stretches they teach you in juniors, when you’re still young and elastic and don’t need to haunt the trainer’s room. Blair seems to expect me to get right to it, to seamlessly follow his form, and is this how everything is going to go up in smoke?
But like during practice, like with Dr. Lin, something inside me takes over. Instinct, subconscious, or my memories fighting to be free? It’s something instinctual; I slide smoothly into the first stretch, matching Blair’s movements.
I straighten my spine. My muscles ache, echoes of lingering hits and bruises all over my body that I don’t remember taking.Shoulders, hips, a burn in my quad. I’ve skated my ass off, clearly. I’m playing a more physical game these days.
I let out a slow exhale as we stretch together. My fingers brush the mat, but my forehead stays inches above it.
Blair shifts, coming out of his pose and kneeling beside me. My mind rabbits. What should I do? Do I follow? Am I supposed to?—
And at the same time, instinct pulls me, dropping me forward. I exhale as Blair smooths his hand down the center of my back, all the way to my hips.
He guides me into the next pose. I push back, my hands flat, my body a perfect, straight line. I inhale, fill my lungs, and slowly exhale through my nose. My body knows this even when my brain does not.
