Page 128 of The Fall
The flight back to Tampa is quiet. I sink into my seat and stare out the window at nothing but darkness and the occasional blink of wing lights. My knee throbs in time with the engine hum. The ache spreads up through my thigh, a reminder of every bad pivot, every missed step tonight.
Blair drops into the seat across the aisle from me.
Hayes snores three rows back. Hollow’s got his headphones on, eyes closed. The rest of the guys are scattered throughout the cabin, some sleeping.
I shift in my seat and my knee protests. Blair’s eyes flick to me. In the dim cabin light, his eyes are darker than usual, storm clouds gathering. “You want to do this now?”
“Do what?”
“Beat yourself up for the next three hours?”
I turn back to the window. My reflection stares back. “I’m fine.”
He unbuckles and slides into the empty seat next to me. His shoulder brushes mine as he settles in, bringing that scent again—Key lime and salt, warm coconut, sunshine. “Talk to me,” he says.
How do I tell him that every mistake feels like proof that I don’t belong here? That I’m waiting for Coach to realize he made an error putting me on this line? That I wake up some mornings convinced this is all temporary, a fluke that’ll end the second everyone sees through me?
“Kicks.”
“You should’ve pulled me,” I say. “After the second. Or at least bumped the line.”
“That what you think I should’ve done?”
“I kept whiffing my coverage. You saw it.”
“You lock it down every game.”
“I didn’t tonight.”
He waits, his gaze steady, for me to share the rest.
“What if—” I stop, jaw tight.
“What if what?” he asks.
“What if… All I had was one hot month? What if I’m not really any better than I was?” I finally drag my eyes up to meet his. “Everyone has streaks. Maybe this was mine.”
Blair studies me. “No. You’re not a streak. I’ve played with guys riding lucky streaks. They talk big, party harder, and act like they invented the sport. That’s not you.”
Blair’s knee presses against mine. I don’t move away. Neither does he. I want to believe him so badly it hurts.
“You got in your own head tonight. Bad games happen to everyone. You ended up chasing. Reaching. I’ve been there.”
He leans closer, his voice soft as worn velvet. “We cleaned it up; that’s the point of a line. We work together. You were off tonight, but I still want you next to me when the puck drops for tomorrow’s game.”
The cabin feels smaller with him this close. Someone’s phone buzzes a few rows back. Hayes shifts in his sleep, mumbles something about pancakes.
“I used to do the same thing,” Blair says after a moment. “After bad games. Tear myself apart for hours. Replay every mistake until I couldn’t see straight.”
I want to lean into him. Want to rest my head on his shoulder and let his certainty seep into me.
“You’re harder on yourself than any coach would ever be. Trust your instincts,” he says. “Trust me.”
“I do trust you,” I say.
“Then trust me when I tell you this: you belong here. On this team. On my line.”
I turn my head, and suddenly we’re too close, close enough that I could count his eyelashes if the light were better, close enough to see the exact shade where sea meets the sky in his eyes.
