Page 182 of The Fall
“Kamara Cay,” he says. “Seven private bungalows on the south rim. It’s a three-hour charter from Miami. The staff sign NDAs. Everything you want is there: snorkeling, paddle boards, hammocks, and quiet. No nightlife.”
“What will we do? Play board games?” I nudge his hip. “Risk? Strip Uno?”
Color climbs his cheeks. “Whatever keeps us busy.” His thumb hovers over the screen. “Say yes and I’ll book it.”
I look at him offering himself up to me. “Let’s do it,” I whisper. “Let’s fall all the way in love together.”
He taps the screen, and just like that, our escape is booked.
“Two weeks,” he says, setting his phone down to cup my face. “Two weeks of us.”
I want to bottle this moment, preserve it against whatever storms might come. We have two games left, nine periods and maybe an overtime thriller if the hockey gods get dramatic, but after that, the world turns into the shush of waves on sand and the sound of his breathing beside me at night. I imagine Caribbean water lapping over our ankles and a horizon free of pucks and clocks and doubt.
The future tilts open, wide and blue, bright as saltwater in July.
Thirty-Seven
We sweep the ice,outskate the clock, and shut down the other team with a deflected wrister that skips harmlessly into the netting.
Our crowd goes wild as the final buzzer sounds. I have a goal and an assist. My thighs burn from the final shift where we held off Colorado’s desperate push to equalize, but I skate another victory lap.
Hayes cannons into me. “Fucking beauty, Kicks!” he yells. “That’s how you end it before a break!”
Blair collides with me in a full-body check. We spin toward the boards, knocking into Hollow, and the rest of the team piles in, a mess of limbs and sticks. When we break apart, Blair’s smile almost knocks me down.
The reporters want a piece of him, and Blair gives his usual postgame quotes, but his eyes seek me out over the clutter of cameras and mics. My post-game interview is a blur. Words tumble out of me about team effort, grinding through adversity, and building momentum into the break.
His knuckles tap mine, quick and quiet, before the locker room chaos floods us. Hollow and Hawks high-five us as they pass on their way to the showers. I push through the clamorto my stall and watch Blair make his circuit around the room, congratulating the guys.
“Pack your shit, gentlemen,” Coach shouts when he walks through the doors. “And get the hell out of here. Enjoy your break, you’ve fucking earned it!”
Cheers rise. Coach always knows what to say at the right moment.
The room is buzzing. The Scandinavian contingent is flying to Stockholm together. Reid is taking his family to Hawaii, and Hawks is off to Toronto. Everyone’s got somewhere to escape to, someone to escape with, and the guys are rushing, desperate to get out and start their vacations.
Blair and I have an early flight, and our bags are packed and waiting in his truck. After this, we go home—to his home—for the night, and then tomorrow morning, we’re off.
My legs burn from the back-to-back penalty kills in the third, and the usual post-game aches are trying to settle in above my eyebrow, but all of that is overshadowed by the bright, buoyant euphoria of winning. We’ve got four wins in a row going into the break.
Not too shabby for a team everyone dismissed as middlers back in October.
Hayes plops down beside me as I’m toweling off after my shower. He speaks softly, his voice too low for anyone else to hear. “You heading straight to Blair’s?”
I nod. “Yeah, figured it makes sense since we’re catching an early flight.”
“Smart.” Hayes nudges my shoulder. “Gonna be a hell of a trip, bud. You ready?”
My face must give me away. Hayes chuckles.
“That’s what I thought.” He stands and face-washes me, but his eyes are gentle. “Take care of him, eh? And yourself. Just…”He flips his keys around his finger. “I hope you guys have a great time.”
I hold out my fist. He bumps it, slowly, and I shoot him a smile.
Blair and I are among the last to leave. He appears at my stall, bag slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from the shower. “Ready?”
“Just about.” I zip my bag and stand, wincing.
His brow furrows. “You okay?”
