Page 179 of The Fall
Thirty-Six
Practice is winding down,thank God. Sweat drenches every inch of me, and my lungs are burning from the last dog-shit drill Coach put us through.
There’s only two more games left until the mid-season Four Nations break, and we’re all counting down the minutes.
Blair drags his stick along the boards. He’s wound tight, his shoulders taut, his jaw working as if chewing over an argument he’s not ready to let out.
“Last one,” Coach calls; I’ve never been so grateful to hear those words. “Make it count!”
We line up. Wait for the whistle.
I push myself to match Blair’s pace. We’re neck-and-neck down the ice, at the turn, and racing back. We stay together through every leg of sprints. When we finally stop, I’ve got nothing left. I double over, hands braced on my knees, gulping down air.
Blair stands next to me, his breath coming in harsh pants. He’s not much better off, but he recovers faster. My jersey sticks to my back, soaked through completely.
“Good hustle,” Blair says, tapping his stick against my shin pad.
I nod, still too oxygen-starved for words. Coach blows his whistle one final time, and practice unravels. The guys heave toward the bench, a mass of exhausted bodies and steaming equipment.
Blair stays close. He’s different today. His eyes keep darting toward me and then away when they meet mine. I grab my water bottle, drain half of it in one go.
The locker room smells like mid-season funk, and I strip down layer by layer, my head swimming from exhaustion. My muscles burn, and that ever-present throb beats above my eye. It’s been there so long I’ve stopped noticing it until moments like this. I toss my pads into my stall and sit heavily on the bench, working my hands through my sweat-matted hair.
“You good?” Blair asks, his voice cutting through the post-practice haze.
“Yeah.” I drag my shirt over my head, wincing as the movement pulls at tight shoulders. “Wiped.”
Blair nods but doesn’t move away. He hovers near my stall, pretending to organize his own gear while shooting glances my way. Something’s definitely up with him today.
I grab a towel and head for the showers, and by the time I’m finished, Blair’s already dressed and waiting near my stall, scrolling through his phone. “Ready?” he asks without looking up.
“Yep.” I grab my bag.
Carpooling has become a convenient excuse, a way to explain my constant comings and going with Blair. No one bats an eye as we head out together.
Axel’s Porsche growls out of the garage while we’re walking to Blair’s truck. Hayes leans out the driver’s window of his Escalade and shouts, “You owe me Chipotle tomorrow, Kicks, or I’m zip-tying your skates together!” His laugh echoes as he pulls away, tires squealing against concrete.
Blair watches him go, then tosses our bags into his truck bed. The thud reverberates through the parking garage. He’s still got that strange energy crackling around him.
“You’re enabling him,” Blair says, unlocking the doors.
I slide into the passenger seat; the leather seat creaks under me. “He owes me from that shootout drill last month.”
The truck rumbles to life beneath us. His knuckles turn white against the steering wheel as he puts it in reverse, and he peels out of the garage before I get my seatbelt clicked.
Blair’s hand rides the wheel as sunlight stripes his forearms. Tight little tells bleed off of him. His jaw ticks every time he checks the mirror. His lips pinch as if he’s chewing on an argument. When the sun shifts, he flexes his hand. I track him the way I’d follow a giveaway twitch on a defenseman’s stick.
Usually Blair fills the drive back from practice with captain’s chatter bleeding out of his brain, a come-down from practice as important as stretching. Most days I hear all about the guys’ gap management, our next opponent’s forecheck, and how our injured guys are doing, but today…
He grips the steering wheel the way a defenseman locks down a crease: white-knuckled, jaw tight, eyes forward even at red lights. He’s silent, but not settled.
We catch a string of green lights, and Tampa’s late-afternoon haze stretches over the bay, washing every palm frond. The city fades and stretches in the reflection of his sunglasses, and I wait him out through two stop signs and half a red light. “Only two games left,” he finally says.
That’s not his full thought; it’s the front edge of a sentence he’s worked on since the rink.
His thumb drums against the wheel. “Can’t believe the break is already here.”
The Four Nations tournament looms, a two-week mid-season break where the league pauses, stars scatter to nationalteams, and the rest of us get a breather. A lot of guys plan Cancun blowouts or Colorado powder stints, but my wants are simpler: Blair. Only Blair.
