Page 42 of The Fall
Blair raises his hands. “I know, I know.”
“Yeah? You sure?” Hayes pushes. “Because I saw you getting worked up out there in Philly.”
“They’re trying to get under my skin?—”
“And they know how to do it.” Hayes cuts his eyes to me for a fraction of a second.
“You’re a fucking rock star, Calle,” Hollow interrupts. He’s chewing on a fistful of fries, but, clearly, he’s experienced at talking around food. “You don’t need to worry about any of those scrubs.”
Hayes leans back in his chair. “You do remember what happened the last time we played Boston? When was that, right before New Year’s?”
Blair heaves a heavy sigh and slumps in his chair, his glare fixed on Hayes. “Here we go.”
Hayes has drawn the attention of the rest of the table, and he knows it. “Picture this: Five minutes left, we’re down by two. Boston’s crowd is howling for blood. We’ve got nothing left in the tank.” He gives a full Cheshire grin. “Until some brilliant Boston plug decides to piss off Calle.”
Blair rolls his eyes. A flush rises in his cheeks, that perfect shade of maroon I’ve kissed a hundred times.
“So Boston decides the smartest play they can do is to take out our man here.” Hayes points at me with his fork. “Wheton comes in high, catches Kicks right across the cheek.”
I don’t remember any of this.
The words blur, something about me getting hit, but the story feels distant, like it happened to someone else, or hasn’t happened yet, or both.
“Kicks goes down, hard,” Hayes continues. “And that’s when our fearless captain here loses his goddamn mind.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“On the contrary, Captain, you were.” Hayes smiles, tips his beer toward Blair. “You dropped the gloves before Wheton even knew what hit him. Absolutely demolished the guy, old-school, feed him all-day-long hockey justice.”
Blair leans his knee against mine, a steady pressure that saysI’d do it again.
“So Kicks goes to the tunnel to get sewn up,” Hayes barrels on, “and we go on the power play. And when our boy comes back for the next face-off, three fresh stitches decorating that pretty face, what does he do?”
Everyone turns to look at me.
I dig through my memory for this game and come up with only static.
The ghost of it is there—stick in my hands, sweat in my eyes, the perfect weight of a puck on my blade. Was it Blair who fed me the pass? Hayes who sprang me?
“He scores with eleven seconds left!” Hayes slaps the table. “And then—” Hayes pauses for maximum drama. “In overtime, after all that heroics, all that blood and beauty… Who gets the game-winner?”
I have no fucking clue.
“FuckingDivot!”
The table erupts into chaos. Divot has a heart of gold, but he’s the definition of a plug. He’s got feet for hands and skates like a refrigerator, but he can hit like a train and pick, pick, pick at the other team. He’s known for his bulk, not his season point total.
Three stitches on my cheek. I touch my face.
All I want in this moment is to remember. To reach back into the murky depths of my memory and pull out a single, solid thought.
But there’s nothing there, only a gaping hole.
“You okay?” Blair asks.
“Yeah. Just remembering.”Liar.
Hayes leans back into his seat, extremely satisfied with his performance. “Point is, Boston brings out the best in us, especially you, Calle.”
