Page 102 of The Fall
I siton the edge of my hotel bed, staring at the sliver of Tampa Bay visible between the curtains. I’ve opened them enough to let the light crawl in, but not enough to show the bridge, and the water catches the afternoon light like broken glass.
I should have found an apartment weeks ago. The team’s given me clearance, but instead I’ve stayed suspended in this hotel room. Hayes keeps dropping hints about neighborhoods, about beaches with fewer tourists, about downtown lofts.
What it would be like to sign a lease and plant myself here? Should I pick a place near Blair or far?
It would help if I could remember where he lived, but, of course, made-up memories don’t come with real-life details. His house—our house—flickers in and out of my awareness. A canal. A lanai. Sun-soaked joy.
So instead, I’m stuck in this limbo with my half-unpacked bags in a half-lived life. I breathe in. Out. In again.
I’m stalling.
I turn my phone over in my hands and stare at the screen. My thumb hovers over the call button, hesitating, because once I hit it, there’s no going back.
Maybe the call will fail, the connection dropping somewhere between cell towers, and I’ll have the excuse I need to?—
No. No more games, no more hiding. I promised myself.
I hit “Call,” and the line rings once, twice.
I nearly hang up.
“Hey, Torey!”
My stomach roils. “Hey, Dad.”
“That goal—pure magic, son. The replay’s been all over the hockey channels. You catch what Jennings said about your stick-handling? Tampa’s using you right, giving you real opportunities. Nothing like Vancouver?—”
He always starts with hockey, always unrolls the tape of me skating as his way of saying hello. That’s my fault; I pushed this off for too many years.
I need to interrupt before he builds too much momentum. “Thanks. It was a good game.”
“Good? It was brilliant. The way you found that seam through traffic?—”
“Dad.” I interrupt him again. “I need to talk to you.”
“Sure, son. What’s on your mind?”
“I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately.” My words start slowly. “I’ve screwed up, Dad.”
“What do you mean? Are the coaches?—”
“This isn’t about my coaches or the team,” I say. “It’sme. I’m not fine. I haven’t been fine in a long time. I screwed things up in Vancouver, and… Look, my life isn’t going great. I have fucked so many things up.”
“You had bad breaks. The Orcas didn’t use you right?—”
“No, Dad, listen to me: it’s my fault. I fucked up. It’s on me.” My breath hitches. “Every time you thought I was doing great, Dad, I wasn’t.”
“Torey…”
“You got so wound up over how bad my game was, and you were angry for me because you thought it was everyone else’s fault, but it wasn’t. It wasme. Every bad play, every pass I fucked up, that’s my fault. The problem was never the Orcas or my coaches. The problem isme. It’s always been me. I almost threw my career away, and I’m really fucking lucky to have this chance in Tampa.”
“I want to help you. I can get a ticket tonight?—”
He doesn’t know how to step back. He’s never had to. To him, I’ve always been fixable with enough dad-wisdom and time.
“No. No, Dad. No. I know you want to help,” I say, and it’s the truth. “I know you do, but I have to do this on my own.”
I can picture him with his phone pressed to his ear, trying to process what I’m saying. Trying to understand why his son is pushing him away when all he’s ever done is push me forward.
