Page 151 of The Fall
That throws me. I stop on the landing.
“Every year, after New Year’s, I pull a prank on the team.”
I turn to face him. His eyes sparkle. Oh, no; this playful Blair is dangerous territory for my already confused heart. “You need an accomplice?”
“I need you,” he corrects, and my traitorous heart stumbles. “They’ll never suspect you’re in on it.”
“What’s the prank?”
He leans forward, breath warm against my ear as he outlines his plan. I’m barely listening to the details, too caught up in the vibration of his voice and the clean scent of his skin.
“So?” he asks when he’s done explaining. “Wanna help in the morning?”
“Count me in.”
An hour later, we’re squeezed into a corner booth at the hotel bar, sharing a piece of chocolate cake. The place is empty, save for the bartender wiping down his glasses and a couple in business attire nursing whiskeys at the bar. The guys are still out.
“So the equipment manager is in on it?” I ask, digging my fork into the frosting.
“Pete’s my accomplice. Has been for years.”
“What’s your favorite prank you’ve ever pulled?”
Blair thinks. “Valentine’s Day, 2022. I hid confetti in everyone’s helmets. It stuck around formonths. It was on a game jersey two months later. One of the trainers got it off of Simmer before it made the national broadcast.”
I snort.
“What about you?” he asks, nudging my fork with his to get at the last of the frosting. “Any pranking experience?”
“No. That wasn’t my role.” My role was to keep my head down. To shut my mouth and do exactly what I was told, and I couldn’t even do that.
Blair’s playful expression from a moment ago fades. He studies me, sucking on his fork. “Do you ever miss Vancouver?”
“Never.”
“What about your dad?”
I could tell him the truth, that my dad’s pride feels a moving target I’ll never hit. “He’s probably taking notes on all my mistakes.”
“You had a four-point night.”
“He’d bring up the turnover in the second period. Or my board battle in the third, when I lost the puck.”
Blair goes quiet, his expression shifting. His gaze slides past me toward the lobby entrance.
I twist in the booth to look. Hayes is weaving through the scattered tables, and the neon-pink cowboy hat perched on his head is impossible to miss. He’s clutching a plastic cowboy boot—also pink—sloshing with frozen margarita. The tequila hits me before he does, sharp and sweet and strong enough to make my eyes water.
“There you are,” Hayes cries out. “You disappeared, Calle.”
Blair’s fork pauses mid-air. “You know I don’t do crowds on New Year’s.”
Hayes drops into the booth beside me. The plastic boot sloshes dangerously as he sets it on the table. Pink slush threatens to spill over the rim. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with alcohol and leftover adrenaline from whatever party he just escaped.
“Yeah, but you usually sulk in your room,” Hayes says, adjusting the ridiculous hat.
“We were watching fireworks. Nothing secret about it.”
“Mm-hmm.” Hayes draws out the sound, lips wrapping around his straw again. His eyes dart between us, taking in the intimate corner booth, the shared dessert plate with its two forks. “And then you came down here for... cake?”
