Page 220 of The Fall
The blue rises. Folds. Falls. Blair’s heartbeat drums against my knuckles, steady as waves on sand. His thumb strokes across mine, and I open my eyes to watch the blue melt over him, real, solid, and here.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Forty-Three
Hayes snagsthe back of my practice jersey as we file out of the room, tugging me aside while the rest of the team heads for the ice. “Need a minute.” His voice drops low, eyes serious in a way I rarely see from him.
The rest of the team filters down the tunnel. Hayes waits until the last skate blade scrapes away before he speaks. “You know we’ve got Washington tomorrow night.”
“Yeah. Big division game.”
“I got a text from a buddy in DC. Zolotarev’s in Washington’s lineup for tomorrow. Bertrand’s out with a separated shoulder.”
Zolotarev.
Last year’s hit comes back in fragments: the crack of my helmet, ice rushing up, the sudden impact, the world tilting, darkness rushing in?—
And then I woke up in Blair’s bed, inside a life where every broken piece of me had been carefully glued together. I woke inside a love that filled every seam I had.
Zolotarev took that from me. He didn’t just put me through the boards. His hit showed me everything I wanted and then ripped it away when I opened my eyes in that Vancouver hospital room.
The doctor kept asking if I knew where I was, what year it was, who was president. I knew all the answers; I didn’t want them to be true.
Cold bleeds through my gear, bringing back the smell of scraped ice, the rubber stink of the bench, the tin taste in my mouth right before everything went dark. My vision narrows to a pinhole. Hayes’s face floats somewhere far away, but all I hear is the roar of my own blood.
The tunnel comes back into focus slowly: scuffed rubber flooring, equipment against the wall, the echo of pucks hitting boards from the ice. Part of me is still on that Vancouver ice, struggling to breathe. Part of me is in that hospital bed, trying to comprehend a future without Blair in it.
Hayes waits.
“Okay,” I finally say.
“Not okay,” Hayes says. “You need to know what you’re walking into.”
“What do you mean?”
“Zolo was a cancer in the room when Blair took that leave after Cody died. He told management Blair was done, that he’d never come back the same player. He said he was abandoning the team, and that if Blair couldn’t handle being captain, he should give up the C.” Hayes’s jaw works, chewing over words he doesn’t want to say. “He campaigned for it, Kicks. While Blair was grieving his brother.”
Zolotarev broke the room while Blair was breaking, a wolf sniffing at a wound, eager for the taste of blood. He saw Blair on his knees and tried to move in, to take when he was at his lowest. He doesn’t just play dirty on the ice; he hunts for weakness everywhere. He takes his runs where he thinks nobody’s watching: my blind side in Vancouver, Blair’s heart after Cody died.
“They barely survived the rest of the season without killing each other. Management moved Zolo that summer and nobody shed tears.”
“Does Blair know he’s playing?”
“Not yet. Coach is telling him.” Hayes glances down the corridor, making sure we’re still alone. “Zolo’s a piece of shit, Kicks, but he’s got a special hatred for Blair. And Zolo brings out a side of Blair that’s… dangerous.”
Cold sweat prickles between my shoulder blades. “How bad was it between them?”
“Bad enough that I was afraid Blair would kill him if Zolo pushed hard enough.”
I can taste tomorrow already, and I swallow down the taste of adrenaline. “So tomorrow night, Zolo is going to try to start things.”
Hayes nods. “He’s going to crawl under Blair’s skin through you. That hit he laid on you last year in Vancouver was dirty hockey, but it was hockey. Tomorrow, everything is going to be personal. He’s not going to pass up a chance to fuck with Blair, especially now that he knows you work as leverage.” Hayes takes another step toward me. “Blair is going to be on the very edge, and Zolotarev knowsexactlyhow to push him over it.”
“You’re telling me I’m bait.”
“I’m telling you to be ready.” Hayes’s eyes are dark. “Zolo’s going to come at you every shift.”
Tomorrow night isn’t just another game; it’s a trap, and I’m the trigger. “What do you need me to do?”
