Page 13 of The Fall
I will. I amnotgoing to lose this life.
“You’re not practicing today. Come back and see me tomorrow morning. We’ll talk more then.”
The rink air is sharp, a cold bite of ozone and shaved ice. I stand at the boards, tucked between the benches where the glass is scarred white.
It’s observer status for me today. Dr. Lin’s “maintenance day” feels like a traffic cone planted over my name, and the air tastes like exile.
On the surface, it’s another morning. Not mine, but one I can fake. The salty chill of last night’s sweat, old tape, new rubber, the murderously sweet sting of Zamboni exhaust. The slap of pucks, the reek of gear, the freezer-burned salt that seeps into everything, all the scents of a hockey rink and home.
The team crashes through drills, blades hissing, bodies colliding. Practice hums loud and alive. Orders volley from the far end. The chatter, the wild whoops, the barked bursts of laughter chase around the rafters as my teammates run the drill.
Hawks plants his skates at the blue line and drops his weight into a feint. His shoulders twitch. He’s aiming for the top corner; I know it before he finishes the turn. All of it—the curve of Hawks’s blade, the vanish-angle of Hollow’s hips as he slaloms right—floods my muscles. I want to be in the lane, want to chase the rebound, want to be the next echo in their pattern. I flex my wrists; the play ghosts through my muscles.
Hawks is going to cut in front of the net. Hollow will pick up the tip and run the puck up the ice. He’ll fake a pass, then whip the puck across the rink to the right wing.
It’s a strange knowing. Plays I don’t remember learning flicker through me.
“That’s how you do it, Hollow!” I shout before I can stop myself.
They snap their heads toward me, grins across their faces.
Hawks swings by on a curl, calling out, “Maintenance day, Kicks?”
“Yeah, gotta check the head. Last night, you know.” I say that as if I have any idea what I’m talking about.
Hawks snorts. “Shouldn’t take ‘em long. That’s prime empty real estate up there.”
I laugh, bright and loud and clear. How long has it been since I’ve had linemate banter?
The drill zips by, morphing into a four-on-three. Hayes floats back, nudges the puck off Fischer’s stick, and whoops at his own theft. He wrestles Fischer into the boards, showboating the victory. His self-appointed mission: keep the ice loud and ridiculous. It works.
Blair slots in on the blue, lines up for the next rush. He finds me, his eyes like oceans on an overcast morning. He gives a smile so brief it’s criminal, the right corner of his mouth creasing before it disappears.
He launches, rolling his shoulders through his first strides, every line of his body devouring the ice. He commands more space than he takes.
The contradiction of him fascinates me. Rough edges and smooth confidence. Raw power channeled into controlled speed. He’s hockey distilled into the art of motion.
He slices through the defense, his blue, blue eyes fixed on the puck. He pulls the puck tight through traffic, never looks up, makes Hayes think he’s about to fire high before dishing low. He rips a wrist shot that snaps top shelf and then wheels back to smile at me when the net pops. Perfection. He wears it like sweat.
The whistle blows. Water break. Everyone scatters, some bursting into laps to keep loose, others peeling off to stretch or shoot the breeze. Blair skates toward the benches, toward me.
He grabs a bottle off the ledge, tilts a fat spray into his mouth and then hands it to me while he leans in, elbows on the boards until we’re shadow to shadow. I drink, and he watches me the whole time.
The shouts and stick-taps of the team fade. What do they see when they look at us? What does he see when he looks at me?
What do I do? How do I act?
“Doc clear you to stand around?” His voice settles deep inside me, where my worry goes to curl up and rest. For a moment, everything feels right.
I nod, swallow past the dryness in my throat. “For now.”
“How’s the head?”
“Better.” Still fucked beyond belief.
His gaze stays locked on me. He’s got the ocean in his eyes, all those beautiful shades of blue swirled together. I want to look away, hide, and I also want to swan dive right into the center of that storm. Pure longing squeezes my chest.
“You’d tell me if something was wrong.”
