Page 30 of The Fall
“Children,” he says. A half-empty energy drink sits forgotten by his elbow.
I glance at Simmer, lying across two chairs, his snapback pulled low. Divot has his nose buried in a book. Hawks fidgets with his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen. He flashes a smile. Who’s he texting? A girlfriend? I should know this.
I bounce my foot at Mach 3 and bite down on a hangnail I’ve been worrying at since the bus dropped us at the terminal.
What if I get on that plane and everything I’m barely holding on to slips away? What if I wake up tomorrow and this time I’ve forgotten how to play hockey? Or what if Blair isn’t burned into my soul, and the bodily memory of his touch is gone, and he becomes only the ghost of a ghost?
What if I’m not partway to rebuilding my memories but halfway to losing them completely?
Fuck. I need to get a grip. I shove the fear down as deep as it can go. Whatever caused this—and fuck, I wish I had a clue what the hell happened—it doesn’t matter. I’m livingthislife, right here, right now, and I have to keep pushing forward.
I keep looking at Blair. By the fifth time, he catches me, and I flush, staring at my feet. When I look back, he’s smiling at me.
If anyone notices, this secret we’re guarding isout.
I’d put two and two together: we aren’t out, and we’re keeping this relationship quiet, except for Hayes. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, and somewhere in the wreckage of my mind, our story is written.
Blair drops into the seat beside me and winks.
I ignite. How many times has he looked at me like that in the past year? How many times have I melted like this, my knees weak and heat rushing under my skin? He makes me want to drop to my knees and part his thighs in front of everyone, fuck the secrecy, fuck the NHL, let me bury my face in the heat of his?—
He shifts, and his arm brushes against me. His warmth bleeds through my suit. I shiver down to my toes.
Blair takes out his tablet and pulls up our playbook. The Xs and Os swim before my eyes. “So I’m thinking if we cycle it back to the point here?—”
And it all clicks into place. The play snaps into focus. I picture myself cycling back, drawing the defense, creating space. This is proof, isn’t it, that not everything is lost?
I lean closer to Blair, half to study the play and half to feel the hard bulge of his biceps against my chest. Has he ever held me down? Held me to him, held me from behind?—
I clear my throat. “Yeah, and if I drop it back to you here,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. “You’ll have a clear lane.”
Blair’s eyes light up. “Exactly.”
Slowly, it seeps back in. This is what I know, the ice and the game.
“We match up well with Philly,” he says. “What are your thoughts on the forecheck? Want to get physical or stick to puck pursuit?”
He’s mapping out game plans, but I’m drawing up completely different routes, ones that end with him on his back and me in his lap. He smells so fucking clean, and I want to get him alone and make him filthy.Blair naked, his body hard against mine, pinning my hands above my head, me writhing under him, his breath hot against my neck as he takes control?—
My focus frays. I’m half here, half lost in the heat of him. He keeps pulling me back with his voice while my thoughts wander to dangerous places. I’m lost in a vision of him stripping me bare. His knee brushes mine, accidental or not, and my body flares; his touch is a burn that ignites everything I’m trying to smother.
I imagine him digging his fingers into my hips, pulling me closer, his growl vibrating through me?—
He leans in, lowering his voice. “You good? You seemed a little off earlier.”
My thoughts blank, still on visions of Blair above me. Blanking this wall of lust is a Herculean task. I clear my throat.“I’m good. Let’s get nasty up there. Pin them deep and punch it home.”
He smiles.
I want to lick every inch of his body. I want him to kiss each and every inch of mine, until I’m boneless and begging?—
“Hey, Cap!” Hawks blurts. Blair’s attention snaps from me. “What’s your take on stick flex? I swear Bauer’s lying about their ratings.”
And like that, I’m adrift—untethered.
Their voices fade to white noise, and I retreat into my mind, trying to pull up memories. There’s nothing, nothing at all, only a void where yesterday and last week and last month and last year should be.
I do remember this morning at least, so my short-term memory seems intact. I’d checked in with Dr. Lin as ordered. She has seen through too much bullshit shoveled by too many players in her career. She knew I was lying before I opened my mouth.
