Page 183 of The Fall
“All good. Nothing serious.” No headache can stop me tonight.
His fingers brush mine as he takes my gear bag. “You did amazing tonight,” he says. “That backhand pass to Hollow was ridiculous.”
“Only doing my job.”
His eyebrow arches. My heart stumbles. “Take the compliment. You were the best player on the ice tonight.”
“Only because of my linemates.”
He smiles. “Flatterer. Come on. Let’s go home.”
Home. Such a simple word, so casually delivered.
Tonight will be the first time I’ve stayed at his house overnight.
The drive is quiet. Our conversation is low-grade nonsense—Hayes’s latest hype-up strategy in the room, Viktor’s new car that already smells like feet.
I watch the lights of downtown Tampa slide past my window, the lit-up Sunshine Skyway Bridge stretching out over dark waters toward St. Pete Beach. The city has that weird hush of eve-before-holiday, as if the whole town knows we get two weeks of freedom. Blair drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console between us, palm up. I slip my hand into his, our fingers intertwining.
Blair’s blinker ticks as he guides his truck off the highway. “You hungry?”
My stomach rumbles on cue. “Starving.”
He grins. “Let’s fix that. Mexican?”
“Perfect.”
We find a drive-through, order enough for four people, and balance the bags on my lap. We hit every green light between the rink and his house, and I call that a sign.
Twenty minutes later, we’re walking through his front door. The house is tinted blue by the moonlight pouring through the sliders. Blair unpacks plastic containers and foil-wrapped burritos while I hunt for plates and napkins.
“Vitaminwater or Gatorade?”
“Vitaminwater. The yellow one, if you have it.”
He tosses me the bottle. “We should eat outside. It’s perfect out.”
I follow him onto the lanai, and we settle into the couch in front of the pool. The water glows turquoise, throwing rippling shadows across the patio. Beyond, the canal is a ribbon of black water.
We settle onto the sectional, plates balanced on our knees, shoulders touching. Blair turns on the massive outdoor TV and flips to the post-game coverage. Our faces flash across the screen: Blair scoring, me blocking a shot, Hawks celebrating his goal.
“Look at you,” Blair says as a clip plays showing me strip the puck at the blue line.
“Lucky play.”
“Bullshit. That was all skill.”
The analysts are praising our team’s discipline, our speed, our penalty kill unit. They even mention me by name—positively—and I still can’t get used to that, to being seen as an asset rather than a liability.
I lean into his shoulder when I’ve demolished my burrito; he kicks off his slides and rests his foot against mine.
Blair finds a Western Conference game, and we spend the final period shit-talking the referees. Blair’s arm stretches along the back of the couch. Our voices drop lower as the night deepens. There’s no rush to leave this space.
When the game gives way to analysis neither of us cares about, Blair stands and stretches, and I try not to stare at the strip of skin that shows when his shirt rides up.
“We should get some sleep,” he says. “You take my room tonight.”
His bedroom.Ourbedroom in my other life. “Where are you sleeping?”
