Page 122 of The Fall
The puck sits on his blade, patient. I know he’s right. I saw the defender shift and assumed the worst, pulled the pass back a fraction, turned a clean play into a turnover.
“You play scared.” He says it without judgment, just fact.
I swallow. The empty net gapes at the far end of the rink, and suddenly I understand why he set those pucks at the blue line.
“Show me,” he says, and slides the puck back to me. “Show me what you do when you stop being afraid.”
Twenty-Eight
Hype music bleedsout of Hollow’s phone. Velcro rips. Burps echo. It’s another morning at the rink. I get dressed on autopilot: right shin pad, left shin pad, right skate, left skate. Sixteen crossovers of the laces on each.
I’m halfway through my pads when Coach enters the room. “Changes to the lines today. Kicks, you’re moving up, slotting between Calle and Hawks on the top line.”
What the fuck? I risk a glance at Blair. He’s got his stick across his knees, methodically wrapping tape around the blade. Coach moves on to the second line pairings, the third, and a D-corps shuffle, but I don’t register a word of it.
Blair finally looks at me as he stands and pulls his jersey over his shoulders. His number stretches across his back, the fabric settling into the contours of his body, achingly-familiar territory I no longer have the right to know. He catches my eye and then heads out of the room.
I know that look.
I breathe in through my nose and give him a nod.
A few minutes later, I follow after him to an unused trainer’s room where he’s waiting for me.
We both step inside. The lights flicker on, and Blair tips his head toward two treatment tables facing each other. “Sit.”
I do.
“Ever done visualization work before?”
“A few times,” I say. “Mostly in juniors.”
“I started doing it last year,” he says. “It…” He drags in a breath. “Helped me get back on the ice.”
There’s more in that sentence than the words themselves. Blair never talks about last season. I shouldn’t say anything, but the way his mouth tightens and how his fingers press into the seams of his jersey shreds the air between us.
“After your brother?—”
Blair’s gaze snaps to mine.
Fuck.
“How do you know about that?”
Good question. How do I know anything? “I read about it.” It’s the truth, technically, or a careful slice of it. “I know you took some time after—” I pause. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Blair’s knuckles go white where they grip the edge of the table. The tendons in his neck stand out like cables under strain.
“You read about it.” His voice comes out flat, the same dangerous quiet he uses when refs make bad calls.
“Online,” I add, because apparently I hate myself. “There was an article about?—”
“Don’t.” Blair’s jaw works, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
I hear the distant echo of practice drills starting up, sticks slapping ice, Coach’s whistle sharp through the walls. We should be out there. We should be running plays, learning each other’s rhythms, maybe again, maybe for the first time.
Blair’s shoulders rise and fall. When he speaks, his voice has lost that dangerous edge, and grief floods the room. “Yeah. After my brother died.”
I nod. There is nothing I can say that won’t wreck the balance we’re holding onto.
