Page 59 of The Fall
Blair. Where is he? My hand flails against the sheets, cool cotton slipping through my touch, until?—
He’s here, right here, with me.
A muted glow from the lanai spills into our bedroom, painting the corner shadows in cold light. I draw in a raggedy, trembling breath. I’m home. Gradually, shapes begin to emerge: the sleek lines of our dresser, the silhouette of our hockey bags slumped against the wall. The clothes we dropped carelessly hours ago.
And Blair, lying beside me, his sleeping face serene and mashed into his pillow.
The smell of the candles he’d lit, the rustle of the smooth sheets, the warmth of Blair—they all tug at me, try to pull me free from my rancid nightmare, but the edges are still there, refusing to let me go.
I’m awake. I’m alive. I’m breathing.
I’m terrified.
A high-pitched whine shreds the silence, and I’m back there again, trapped in the wreckage of my nightmare. The taste of blood and fear floods my mouth. I’m choking on it, drowning in it. Phantom pain sears my ribs. I can’t breathe. I need to breathe. The images are fractured, shards of a broken mirror. All I know for certain is the fall.
Home. I’m home with Blair. He smells like home, feels like safety. He’s as calm as the ocean after a storm.
But the nightmare isn’t letting go. That smell—that god-awful chemical reek of burning rubber—fills my lungs and throat. A voice whispers,Remember.
A year has been wiped clean from my memory, and I don’t know what’s missing. I don’t know what’s happened to me during that year. I can’t even remember what I’ve lost. Is this nightmare a memory?
No, it was a dream, only a dream.
Beside me, Blair sleeps. The shadows shift, lengthen, but Blair remains. Solid. Real. The dark in the room deepens, bleeding out from the corners, twisting into shapes that flicker on my periphery. It’s predatory; it circles me, gnaws at me. The lapping of the canal against the dock, so steady and soft before, sounds like breakers, like crashing waves, like?—
Focus. Breathe.
Remember.
It’s like picking at a scab. Why does it feel so real?
Blair reaches for me in his sleep, his hand finding mine. The fear recedes.
But something is wrong. The thought hits me, clear and sharp and undeniable. I don’t understand it, don’t want to understand it, but something iswrong. With me. With everything.
But what?
Thirteen
The hum vibratesthrough the floor and climbs my legs, working higher, leaking through each seam in me until it settles between my ribs. Twenty thousand voices chant our names beyond these concrete walls, a sound that could crack the sky open. The arena breathes with us, ready to unleash everything it’s been holding back.
Chatter ricochets off cement and steel. Hollow juggles a puck with his stick while Hawks leans in, chirping something that makes Hollow’s concentration waver. The puck drops, bounces once, and Hollow snatches it back up without missing a beat.
Blair moves through the chaos, born to steady us all. He grips shoulders, clasps hands, trades nods that carry the entire season. The team orbits around him even when he’s silent, especially when he’s silent, because Blair himself speaks louder than any pregame speech ever could.
I fumble with my skate laces, one time, two times, like I’ve forgotten how this works. I dig my palms into my eyes until color blooms in neon flares—sour blue, chemical gold, green so hard it borders white. When I open my eyes again, the locker room tilts sideways before settling back into place.
Maybe it’s the static. Maybe it’s the boys hollering. Maybe I’m nowhere. Maybe the season has cracked me open, and only noise is pouring out.
Maybe this is what game-seven nerves taste like: ragged copper, no sweetness.
I try to inhale as if it’ll fix what’s inside me. Stale sweat coats the back of my throat; the sharp edge of fresh tape and stinging menthol rides shotgun with the reek of anticipation. I suck it in, choke a little, hold steady. If I hold myself upright enough, maybe everything will line up as it’s supposed to, easy and seamless.
It’s the energy of the night. That’s all. It’s the rough laughter, the slap of sticks, the way Divot bounces on the balls of his feet, vibrating as if he alone could power this arena. It’s this game: do-or-die, right here, tonight. My heart kicks up, wailing.
This year is the dream, the one they’ll write books about. Every piece fell into place, creating this perfect, unstoppable machine. The right guys, the right mix.
Except—
