Page 118 of The Fall
“Stop.” He skates close. “You’re rushing it. Control first, then power.”
He’s right there, a wall of certainty inches away. His attention feels like his hands moving over me.
And then it is. His gloved hand settles on the small of my back. The rink, the lights, the cold; it all dissolves, along with all sound. The hum of the arena lights and the faint whir of ventilation vanishes.
“Don’t lock your hips. The power comes from your core, not your arms.”
I force an exhale. The scent of coconut and salt reaches me. It’s too much; it’s not enough. I fight to stay loose, to do what he says, but my mind is a scramble of crossed wires.
“This,” he says, pushing a little harder, “is where you start the rotation. Feel it?”
I give the smallest of nods.
“Good.” The seconds stretch?—
Then he pulls back. The cold rushes into the space he leaves behind.
He skates backward a few feet, his blue eyes holding mine. “Again.”
Hollow chirps me the next day in the locker room. “You take that shot again, and I will personally make sure it ends up in the next blooper-reel. Bar down? Bro, that puck went barneighborhood. Like, it left the state.”
I roll my eyes and keep unlacing my skates. My arms burn from this morning’s shooting drills, but the chirping stings more than my muscles. My shot was ugly, yes. The puck sailed so high it probably scraped paint off the ceiling. I’ve been doing better, but?—
Then Blair’s voice cuts in. “Hollow, you shoot about as accurately as you pass. If Kicks’s shot left the state, yours is still looking for a GPS signal.”
The room erupts. Sticks thump against stalls, jeers rise, and tape balls fly at Hollow. Hollow throws his head back like he’s been mortally wounded. “That’s slander, Captain!”
Blair strips off his practice jersey, the fabric pulling up to reveal a flash of tanned skin and the cut of his hip bone. “Truth hurts,” he says, tossing his jersey into the laundry bin.
Hollow clutches his chest. “After everything we’ve been through.”
“Everything being you missing open nets?” Blair’s pulling off his shoulder pads now.
The guys are eating this up. I duck my head, focusing harder on my laces. Hayes bumps into my shoulder. “You and me, protein and grease?” It’s his way of asking if I want to go get lunch after this.
“Yeah.”
The guys are still going at Hollow, who’s now defending his shooting percentage with fake statistics he’s inventing on the spot.
Blair’s at his stall, methodical as always. Shoulder pads off, hung in their spot. Under Armour peeled away. I track him without looking directly at him, a skill I’ve perfected overmonths of practice. The way he rolls his shoulder, testing for soreness. How his fingers work through the tape on his wrists, unwinding it in perfect spirals.
“I’ll come,” Blair says. “If that’s cool.”
“Totally cool,” I say. Too fast, too fast. “I mean, yeah, sure. Of course.”
My face burns. I yank my second skate off and shove it in my bag, the blade catching on the zipper, everything about me screamingnot cool, definitely not cool.
Hayes saves me. “More the merrier. You’re buying, though, Captain. I fed you last week.”
I risk a glance up. Blair’s watching me. I drop my gaze, fumbling.
Around us, the locker room carries on. Hollow’s moved on to defending his plus-minus. Someone’s speaker pumps out bass-heavy hip-hop. Normal sounds. Normal moments. This shouldn’t feel like standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Twenty minutes?” Hayes asks, already heading for the showers. “I need to rinse the stink off.”
“Works for me.” Blair’s pulling off his compression shorts now, moving toward the showers too.
I wait until they’re back before I shower. The hot water helps, drowning out the noise in my head. I let it beat against my shoulders until my skin turns pink, until I can breathe without feeling like my ribs might crack.
