Page 147 of The Fall
“Not tonight you’re not.” I wave Hawks off. “Seriously, I’m going to crash at the hotel. Go have fun, tell me all about it in the morning.”
Hayes, phone in hand, keeps scrolling through rideshare options. “One less seat I need.” And just like that, he grabs the room’s attention back to him. “Deep Ellum? Addison? Fair Park? Where are we going, boys?”
They move on to party planning rather than trying to rally the party-pooper. I take my time. I’m slow tonight on purpose, waiting for them to get going and get out of the room without me, and finally, they are on their way, a herd of bros on a mission.
Simmer claps my shoulder on his way. “Happy New Year, Kicks.”
“You too.” The words are automatic, hollow as a drum. His hand falls away and he’s swept up in the tide of bodies heading for the door, voices already climbing with anticipation.
The locker room empties in stages—first the loudest ones, Hayes and Hawks leading the charge with promises of bottle service and VIP sections. Then the middle pack, debating between clubs versus bars, dress codes versus dives. The stragglers trickle out last, still buttoning shirts and checking phones for addresses.
Blair follows the train of party-goers. Once he leaves, I’ll be alone. It’s what I wanted, but…
“Happy New Year,” I call to him.
Blair stops mid-stride and turns back. “You sure you don’t want to come?” He’s a quiet question mark in the doorway. The kindness in his hesitation is harder to take than the boisterous pressure from the others.
I shake my head. “Nah. Game tomorrow.” We’re here for a rare back-to-back in Dallas tomorrow. It’s a holiday special, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. League shenanigans.
He nods. The others’ voices echo from the hallway, fading fast. “Happy New Year to you, too.”
Then he’s gone, and I’m alone with the sweat-soaked gear and the dripping shower.
My hotel room seals me in silence.
I lie flat on my back on the bed, tie loose. I’m dressed for success, and failure has never been closer. I’m not tired. I’m empty.
I don’t want to be alone; I don’t want to be with people, either. The contradiction burns.
I can picture the guys out on the town: collars popped, cowboy hats and aviators on, already a few rounds deep in the beers. At some point, Divot will be hoisting someone onto their shoulders. Hollow is going to lose his shirt.
I’ve hated New Year’s Eve since my first year in the NHL. I’ve spent four years begging to become someone else at the stroke of midnight, as if I could wish my shitty choices and bad executions away, wrap all the terrible I’d slipped into up in a bow, disclaim ownership, unshoulder any responsibility. Every year I said, ‘this year is different.’
This year, it is. I had four points tonight. Two goals, two assists, and I’m in the midway point of a season that’s exceeded everyone’s wildest expectations. I should feelsomething. Pride. Relief. Anything.
The lamps throw bruise-colored light on the ceiling. Dust drifts in the beams. The deeper I breathe, the tighter my chest gets. I don’t want noise. I don’t want celebration. I want?—
I press my palms into my eyes and try not to remember little arcs of string lights, or the canal water lapping at his dock, or the echo of soft, sweet jazz.
Stop.Stop. I want to cage my thoughts behind a locked door.You don’t have him anymore. You never did.
I would give anything to kill off this want, to banish the ghost of his fingers on my cheekbones and the tickle of his exhale on my skin, forever. Never let me remember again. Never let me imagine, or want, or hunger for what I can never have.
And, at the same time, I would bleed myself out for one moment of that life back. I would give up everything, I would sell my soul, I would sacrifice my last breath if I could kiss Blair again.
I close my eyes and let myself sink into the memory I’ve been fighting. This once. Tonight. His laugh, low and surprised after some stupid joke I made. The way morning light caught in his hair. How he looked at me like I was worth looking at, worth knowing, worth keeping.
God, I’m pathetic.
A knock on my door shatters through my quiet.
My muscles tense before I sit up. I peek through the peephole, not knowing who to expect, but?—
It’s Blair.
My fingertips go numb. In the hall, he shifts, and the motion ripples through me. The door between us might as well be paper-thin. He radiates through it, charging the air in my room.
He knocks again, softer this time.
