Page 41 of The Fall
“Seriously,” Hollow says, “you were incredible out there.”
More toasts follow: to the win, to Simmer’s insane save in the third, to Reid’s face-off skills.
They holler and cheer as Blair and I take our seats. Blair slides his thigh against mine beneath the table and leaves it there, a long line of warmth.
When the waiter arrives, the guys bombard him with their orders. They’re talking all over each other, ordering obscene amounts of food, and the poor guy scrambles to keep up with a hockey team’s appetite and all their picky substitutions.
When it’s our turn, Blair orders for both of us. “Two virgin piña coladas, please.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, surprised, but Blair gives me that half-smile that sends my world into a tailspin. He presses his knee more firmly against mine under the table. He leans back in his chair, shaking his head at the ongoing antics around us.
I can’t stop staring at him. The way he moves through life is magnetic. Everything he does draws me in deeper. He’s so confident and sure of himself?—
A hard kick from Hayes lands against my shin. I jerk, bite out a curse?—
Hayes’s eyes drill into me over the longneck of his beer. Very purposefully, he slides his gaze to Blair and then back to me.
Message received: I need to find some chill or this secret of ours is going to be all over this bar.
We still haven’t talked about what Blair meant when he said he didn’t care if anyone sees. Was that the heat—or chill—of the moment? Did he really mean it? He’d come out for me? Is that what we want?
I try to look casual as the talk of tomorrow’s game against Boston builds. Blair is deep in conversation with Axel. I catch fragments—“their blue line collapse” and “weak on the right side”—but I’m more focused on the movement of Blair’s lips.
The food arrives sizzling hot: grilled shrimp skewers with garlic butter, fried calamari piled high with lemon wedges, stuffed lobster rolls, platters of sliders and baskets of fries. Theguys dig in like they haven’t eaten in days. Hollow steals half a lobster roll off Hawks’s plate while Mikko shoves fries into Divot’s mouth. Blair and my drinks arrive, tall and frozen and topped with tiny umbrellas. Blair winks at me as he takes a sip.
“What the hell are those?” Hawks’s laugh is a bark of sound.
“Beach vacation in a glass,” Blair replies, completely unfazed. He takes a long sip through his straw, his eyes never leaving mine.
Sweet coconut and pineapple flood my mouth. It tastes like summer sunshine and lazy afternoons spent lounging by water. I don’t even care that it’s nonalcoholic; I’m drunk on Blair alone.
“Dude, quit hogging the fries, pass them?—”
“That saucer pass in the third?—”
The noise is deafening. They’re going back and forth, jabs about sick shots and sweet passes scored during the game today or last week or last month. They’re all so comfortable with each other, and it’s easy to see how we’ve been able to play so well together this season. Their camaraderie wraps around me, hot and tight. Well,ourcamaraderie. I’m part of this now, and it feels incredible.
“Hey, Kicks,” Hayes says around a mouthful of calamari. “What do you want to do after all this?”
I shrug. “I’ve never thought that far ahead.”
“You’re not one of those guys who’s got a plan for life after the game?”
“Not really.” I take a sip of my drink, my gaze on Blair. He’s talking with Axel again. “Life is pretty awesome right now.”
Other than Blair, no one understands more about me than Hayes. Hell, right now, he understands more about me than I do. I trusted him before and I still trust him now. He feels like my closest friend. I had to have someone, right?
“Yeah?” Hayes’s chewing slows.
“Yeah, I want everything I’ve got. Forever.” A flush burns my cheeks. I understand what I’m saying.
Hayes lifts his beer and holds it out for a toast. I raise my virgin piña colada, and we toast above a demolished platter of sliders. “I’m happy for you,” Hayes says. He glances one more time to Blair, but this time, his look is tender, full of something warm and deep. Brotherhood, if I had to put a name to it.
Blair leans into me as he reaches for a handful of fries. Our shoulders brush together, and that spark flares again, raw lightning that runs through my body whenever he touches me.
The conversation flows. The guys are loud, their voices overlapping as the talk shifts to our game against Boston. Everyone has an opinion, and they’re all sharing it at once. Who’s going to score first (Hawks bets on himself), who will get sent to the box first (everyone bets on Blair). Ideas ping-pong around the table. Power plays. Penalty kills. Penalty minutes. Blair pulls salt shakers and knives into formation, diagramming plays. He’s so passionate about this game and this team. He loves hockey like I love him.
Hayes points his bottle at Blair. “Calle, you’ve got to keep your head screwed on when you’re out there tomorrow. You can’t let them get in your head.”
