Page 131 of The Fall
“It was clean. Learn to defend with your legs.”
Hayes groans. “Christ, I forgot how insufferable you are when you’re right.”
I stifle a laugh. Blair’s eyes cut to mine. He knows he’s won this round. “I’m stating facts.”
“Facts.” Hayes snorts. “Tell that to my bruised ribs from that so-called clean check.” Hayes tosses a wadded-up napkin at Blair’s head. “Your memory’s selective.”
“My memory’s perfect,” Blair counters, catching the napkin mid-air without looking. He tosses it onto his empty plate.
“Perfect,” Hayes scoffs. “Like when you forgot we had morning skate and showed up to the rink at noon?”
“That was once.”
The evening air has cooled enough that goosebumps rise on my arms. Blair notices—of course he notices—and his gaze flicks from my arms to the sliding door. “You cold?” Blair asks, already half-standing. “I can grab?—”
“I’m good.” My words come out too quickly. Blair’s shoulders drop a fraction.
Hayes is oblivious to the undercurrent. Or maybe not; maybe he’s choosing to ignore it. With Hayes, it’s hard to tell. “Anyway,” Hayes continues, “speaking of terrible memories... Remember that time in Boston? When we snuck into the arena after hours?”
“You two broke into the Boston arena?” My eyebrows shoot up.
“Not broke in,” Blair clarifies. “The security guard—what was his name?”
“Donovan,” Hayes supplies. “Old guy with the ballcap.”
Blair nods. “We told him we needed to get a feel for the ice before the playoff game.”
“At midnight?” I ask.
Hayes shrugs. “We sold it as pre-game visualization. Very professional, very sports psychology.”
“Hayes did his serious face.” Blair demonstrates, furrowing his brow and squaring his jaw.
“And he believed that?”
Blair’s mouth quirks up at one corner. “I think he wanted to believe us. Made it easy.”
“Made it easy,” Hayes mimics. “You could sell ice to penguins with that face.”
I shake my head. “So what did you even do once you got in?”
“We skated,” Blair says simply.
“In the dark,” Hayes adds. “No lights except the emergency exits. No music. No crowd. We’d been getting our asses handed to us. Coach was riding us hard. And we were kids. Young and dumb.”
“Did it work?” I ask.
Hayes flashes a smile. “Won the next four straight.”
The pool filter hums in the background, mixing with distant laughter from inside where Lily and Erin are probably turning the kitchen into a frosting battlefield.
“We were different then,” Blair says. “Everything felt... bigger.” His face catches the last of the light, and for a second he looks younger, maybe like that kid who snuck onto Boston ice at midnight, searching for something in the dark.
“You ever miss it?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Being young and dumb?”
Blair’s eyes find mine. There’s a flicker there, quick as the wind across water.
Hayes clears his throat, loud and deliberate, and speaks first. “How can I miss it when I get to watch it play out in front of me every day?”
