Page 175 of The Fall
Blair’s laugh vibrates through his shoulder into mine. “I thought his eyes were gonna pop out of his head.”
“He deserved it. That backhand pass to you was filthy.”
“Almost as good as your between-the-legs move.” His knee nudges mine.
In the dim light of his room, his eyes are hues of midnight. He slides his fingers into mine and I hear his breathing change.
Our hands fit together perfectly, hockey-strengthened calluses meeting calluses. I run my thumb across his knuckles, mapping the ridges and valleys.
He turns toward me, his free hand coming up to brush hair from my face.
Our lips meet, and I’m home.
His palm cups my face. I breathe in coconut and game tape and Blair. The mattress shifts as we draw closer, my fingers curling into his T-shirt. He deepens the kiss and I melt into it, into him. My mind goes quiet; no plays to analyze, no pressure, no next game to worry about.
Time stretches soft and warm around us. His thumb strokes my cheek while my hands drift up his arms, mapping themuscles built from years of hockey. The bed creaks as he shifts closer.
“Sorry if this breaks the rules,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, his nose brushing mine. “I’m not. I missed you, too.”
“This is the best part of my day,” I breathe.
“Mine, too.”
When he kisses me again, it’s deeper. I don’t remember moving, but suddenly I’m lying on top of him. Blair’s hands have found their way under my t-shirt. We’re committed to taking this slow, but my body strains toward his like a compass finding north. Heat flares between us.
“Torey,” he moans.
I break the kiss, panting. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. We’re both trying to regain control.
“We should—” I start.
“I know,” he cuts me off, but he doesn’t stop touching me.
I shift, and Blair inhales. I drop my head to his shoulder, breathing in his scent, trying to anchor myself.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.
I shake my head against his shoulder. “Can’t.”
His hands frame my face as he pulls me in for another kiss. The kiss deepens, and I pour everything into it, all the months of wanting, of watching him across locker rooms and flights and team dinners, of days and nights thinking this could never, would never, happen. My hands roam his shoulders, his biceps, needing to touch every part of him I’ve only been able to look at until now.
But we keep our promise, and eventually, our kisses grow lazier and less urgent. The fire between us banks to embers. My racing heart steadies as the brush of his fingertips along my spine turns gentle, soothing rather than stoking. My muscles unwind, tension draining away until I melt against him.
I trace the curve of his jaw with my nose, drinking in his closeness. The night wraps around us, hushed and tender. Time stretches out, sweet as honey.
“Stay,” he says.
I should say no; I should slip back to my room before the team wakes.
“Okay,” I say.
Blair’s swimming pool holds the afternoon in fragments, in shards of broken diamonds across the rippling surface. A pair of egrets stalk the opposite bank of the canal. The lanai is quiet, wrapped in a post-practice hush.
I love this time: damp towels over the backs of the chaises, cracked-open Gatorade on the table. We’ve settled into this pattern quickly: practice and the pool, and a game if it’s on the schedule. We are together more hours of the day than we are apart. I’m only at my apartment to sleep, when we’re not on the road.
Practice ended two hours ago, but my muscles still hum. His thumb digs into the spot behind my ankle that’s always sore after a hard skate. I fight back a groan.
