Page 212 of The Fall
“Not much for eight months.”
“Everything that matters is coming with me or driving me home.”
Blair’s eyes soften. He takes my duffel from me. “Then let’s go.”
When we’re home, he helps me unpack, clearing space for my things among his. He plugs my phone charger into an outlet by what will be my side of the bed and sets my sketchbooks in one of the nightstand drawers. He lines up my sneakers next to his boots in the closet.
He glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Now you’re officially moved in.”
I lean against the doorframe as he fusses with my shoes. There’s pride in the way he arranges my life with his. “That easy, huh?”
“That easy.”
He takes my hands in both of his. The calluses on his palms rasp against mine, hockey hands touching hockey hands. “Welcome home,” he says softly.
I kiss him. “Wherever you are is home to me.”
Forty-One
“Twenty minutes to landing.”
Vancouver sprawls gray and glassy beneath the cloud cover. The last time I flew into this city, I still belonged to it. Now I’m returning as the enemy, and each flickering light below us is a pin on a map marking my failures.
“You good?” Blair’s pinky grazes my wrist.
“Yeah. Ready to get this over with.”
The landing gear grinds into place, and every jolt reminds me of a time spent sitting in the press box and pretending the boos didn’t bother me.
Hayes leans across the aisle, grinning like we’re headed to Disney World instead of the arena where twenty thousand people used to chant for my benching. “Excited to show your old team what they’re missing?”
“Thrilled.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Hayes says. “You’ll show them.”
Blair’s voice drops. “You’re not that guy anymore.”
He’s right; I know he’s right. The Torey who left Vancouver drowned in his own failures, and I’m not him anymore. But knowing I’ve changed doesn’t stop the memories of falling andfailing under those lights while everyone sharpened their knives and waited for the impact.
Our hotel is downtown, a short bus ride from the arena. Rain slicks everything into mirrors: street signs, bus windows, even Blair’s hair where it escapes under his ball cap. He doesn’t say anything until we’re halfway there. “How’s your head?”
“Loud.”
There’s the coffee shop where I used to grab breakfast before practice, and the intersection where I’d sit in traffic, dreading another day of disappointing everyone.
When we arrive at the hotel, the rhythm of game day settles over everyone. We do this eighty-two times a year at a minimum, and we all have our routines.
The ride up to the rooms is endless. When we hit the ninth floor, I escape before anyone notices I’m holding my breath. I fumble with the key card and have to swipe it three times before the light flashes green. In my room, silence wraps around me, thick as puck fog on a bad ice day.
I should sleep. That’s what game day naps are for, storing up energy, letting your body rest before battle, but the bed might as well be made of needles for how relaxed I am. Game time is seven hours away, but it’s breathing down my neck.
I’m pulling off my tie when the knock comes. Three quick taps, barely audible. I know it’s Blair before I open the door, and there he is, tall and solid in my doorway. His dress shirt is untucked, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
“Thought you might want company,” he says, voice low enough that it won’t carry.
“Yeah,” I say, stepping back to let him in. “I do.”
He studies my face, reading me like game tape. “This place is really getting to you?”
