Page 7 of The Fall
I’m in the future. I’m in the fucking future.
Last night, I thought about ending everything on that beach. I thought I could walk into the ocean and vanish from this earth. I didn’t, I fucking didn’t, and then there was the game, and the hit,thathit, and now?—
I’m here, in thefuture, with Blair.
Blair.
Photos of us fill my camera roll. In one, we pose for a selfie, heads close together, someone’s pool in the background. My eyes crinkle at the corners, and Blair looks at me like I’m everything that matters in his world. I flick to the start of the camera roll, scroll through sand-covered afternoons, goofy pool selfies, Blair’s squint under a South Florida sun.
I look so fucking happy.
According to the timestamp, this photo is from a month ago.
The next shows me, Blair, and another man, a guy about Blair’s age, late twenties, obviously a hockey player. We sit at a kitchen table, casually dressed, caught mid-laugh. It’s like someone told the funniest joke and none of us can contain ourselves. That photo leads to another, and another, all featuring this mystery third man, until I open Instagram and see “’Hayes Emerson tagged you in a photo.’”
That’s him. Hayes Emerson. I was right, he’s a hockey player, a Mutineer. And the photo he tagged me in is the same one I found, him, Blair and me laughing so hard we can’t stay in our chairs.The best friends a guy can ever wish for, the caption reads.#BFF
My mind turns to static. Nothing adds up. Nothing makes sense.
Photos can lie. What does Google say?
Google says I’m a fucking Tampa Bay Mutineer.
Not a Vancouver Orca. A Mutineer. Traded, given a second chance, put in the hard work… the details buzz past me. Articles from a dozen sports sites all report the same thing: Torey Kendrick traded to the Mutineers.
It’s the last paragraph of the seventh article, only a sentence or two, but it leaps off the page and grabs me by the throat.Kendrick’s trade is also interesting due to his history with the Tampa Bay Mutineers. Last season, former Mutineer player Zolotarev delivered a punishing blow to Kendrick, one that gave Kendrick a major concussion and nearly ended his career.
Hit. Last season.
My brain skids to a halt.
The hit, the hit, that’sthehit, from last night. I remember it, the force, the impact, the burn of the ice, the arena’s roar. I remember the game, the locker room, dressing in my Vancouver jersey, still feeling sand on my skin. That waslast night.
Or was it last year?
Google wants to shower me with photos, thousands more than before, when the most newsworthy item about me was how I hadn’t been benched yet. Now there are action shots, pregame warm-ups, postgame interviews. Goal celebrations on ice, me at the center of team huddles, arms around Tampa Bay teammates—I look like the hot-shit player our record claims I am. We’re in a playoff push, thanks to the team’s leading goal scorers: Blair Callahan and Torey Kendrick.
It cuts me deep, seeing these photos. There I am, playing as if I love the game, feeling the way I used to, back when I believed dreams could come true, when I thought my hands and will were strong enough to build a future.
But I don’t remember any of it.
Texts. Those have to reveal something. The phone—my phone, I suppose—must be new, because the text threads only go back to February. Still, there are a lot. DoorDash confirmations,Uber receipts—from Tampa Bay mostly, but I recognize other hockey cities in the mix—confirmation codes…
And hundreds of texts between me and Blair. Snippets fly past as I scroll?—
Morning, babe.
How’s your day going?
Miss you.
I’ll be home soon. I’m bringing dinner.
Have you seen my iPad charger?
Coach is on a tear today, Jesus.
Love you.
