Page 174 of The Fall
“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “Are those burgers done or what? I’m starving.”
“Always thinking with your stomach.” Hayes flips the last of the patties onto the plate and turns off the grill. “But yes, they’re done. Perfect, actually. You’re welcome.”
Blair snorts. “I’ll grab Lily and Erin.”
He heads toward the house, and Hayes catches my eye. He shoots me a shit-eating smile that makes me want to throw my Gatorade at him. “Myman,” he crows.
“Is this where you give me the best-friend talk?”
He laughs. “I don’t think you need it. I have a good feeling about this. The best, actually.”
“I hope so.”
“Don’t fuck it up.” His voice is gentle. “Blair’s one of the good ones. And so are you, for what it’s worth.” He hands me the plate of burgers, and our eyes meet. For once, there’s no teasing in his expression.
“Thanks,” I say. “For being cool about this.”
“What are best friends for?”
The hotel carpet drinks every footstep, muting my nerves as I count door numbers in the sallow light. 514... 512... 510. There it is; Blair’s room.
I shouldn’t be here. I know it. I’m too old to be sneaking past curfews and coaches. Back then, if you got caught, it meant a bag skate at dawn. Now, one teammate with good hearing could open doors we’re not ready for yet.
Second thoughts crowd my mind. We agreed to be careful on the road and not do this, but here I am. Two hours of staring at my hotel room’s ceiling has driven me crazy.
I miss him.
The responsible thing would be to turn around, go back to my room, and text him goodnight.
But…
I tap his door softly enough that only he could hear it.
My heart hammers. Five seconds pass. Ten. I start to back away, thinking maybe he’s asleep or in the shower, when I hear movement inside. Footsteps approach. A shadow passes through the peephole.
I hold my breath.
What am I doing? The team is literally down this hallway. Hollow’s room is around the corner.
The lock clicks; the sound freezes me in place.
My feet stay rooted to the carpet as the door begins to open. Everything I want is on the other side.
There he is; Blair leans against the doorframe wearing shorts and a faded Mutineers T-shirt. “Torey?”
“Hi,” I whisper. I have no plan here. “I missed you.”
He glances down the empty hallway, then back to me. The corner of his mouth tugs upward as he steps back and holds the door open.
The room smells like him, coconut and whatever lotion he uses on his shoulder, the one he ices after every game. His iPad is rolling through game tape from Montreal’s last three matchups.
“Always working.” I smile.
“I was.” He turns off his iPad and tosses it face-down on the desk. “But not anymore.”
We gravitate toward the bed, sitting side by side. The mattress dips beneath our weight.
“Did you see Hollow’s face when Coach bumped him to first PP?” I ask.
