Page 99 of The Fall
The leather chair creaks under me as I shift forward, hands between my knees. The GM’s studying a paper on his desk—a roster sheet, maybe, or my stats. He doesn’t look up. I count my breaths to keep them even. One. Two. Three.
The GM finally looks up. His expression gives nothing away. “Kendrick,” he says, and my name sounds final in his mouth. “You made it.”
I blink. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. The sweat cooling on my back suddenly feels like ice water.
Did he just?—
The GM’s still watching me, waiting for something, but my brain won’t connect the words to meaning. Made it. I made it?
“You’re on the team,” he says, this time slower. “But let’s not kid ourselves. It’s by the skin of your teeth.” He leans back and taps his pen on the edge of his desk. “You’re here because we think there’s still a spark in you worth salvaging, but the leash is short. Shorter than you can probably imagine.”
“I know what this means,” I say instead, my voice steadier than I expected. “And what it took to give me this shot.”
“Coach says he saw enough life out there.” He leans back, folding his arms. “So that’s what we’re banking on. Don’t make us rethink this. There are twenty guys who would kill for your spot.”
“I won’t waste it.”
The GM watches me for another beat, then nods once, sharp. “Good. Because here’s what happens next.” He pulls a folder from his desk drawer, slides it across the mahogany surface. “You’re starting fourth line. Limited minutes. Special teams are off the table until you prove you can handle five-on-five without falling apart.”
The folder sits between us. My contract, probably. The terms of my survival.
“You’ve been putting in the work. Early mornings. Extra drills.” His eyes narrow. “That bought you exactly one thing—this conversation instead of a plane ticket home. You get thirty days to show us you belong. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
He pushes the folder closer. “Sign it, and get back to your team.”
I grab the pen, scrawl my name across the bottom line without reading a single word. My first NHL contract felt like a lottery ticket. This one feels like a lifeline.
Outside of his office, it takes a second before it really hits me: I made it. I made the fucking team. I’m here, I’m still here, and there’s more left of me to give.
I will give them everything.
I am home.
Back in the room, it’s a party. The air is buzzing, a messy kind of energy that gets in your blood. I missed thissomuch.
Hayes strides across the room in three easy steps when I walk in. “Kicks!” His voice booms, and he holds out his hand for a high-five, then pulls me into a brotherly, back-slapping hug. “You did it! Welcome to the Mutineers!”
He’s sweat-soaked and still in his base layers even though most of the other guys have changed and showered. He’s been waiting, I realize, for me. To welcome me to the team.
For Hayes, loyalty is never complicated.
I smile. “It feels good, man. It feels so good.” And it does.
“We’re gonna rock this season.” He slings his arm around my shoulders and drags me into the room, folding me into the ebb and flow. “You’re one of us now. Let’s make it count, eh?”
Our locker room hums with game-day energy. Guys are taping sticks, adjusting gear, and running through their rituals. Hayes is holding court, demonstrating some save he made in practice.
But Blair isn’t part of any of it.
He’s at his stall, fully dressed except for his skates, staring at his hands where they rest on his knees.
His laces hang, tongues of his skates yawning open, untouched. The tape for his sticks sits in a neat stack beside him, new and white, and he hasn’t reached for it. He breathes, and that’s the only sign there’s a person inside all that gear.
Noise from the room rolls and breaks and never seems to touch him. He looks like someone took a spoon and scraped everything vital from inside him, leaving a shell sitting there in Mutineers gear.
What day is it? The question comes out of nowhere, a flare in fog. The whiteboard near the door has today’s details scrawled across it. What day?—
