Page 232 of The Fall
God, which would be worse? That I’m losing my mind, or that I’m not? A concussion would besomuch simpler.
What am I supposed to do? Do I fight against this by doing what feels most out of character, or keep clinging to myinstincts? What if fighting destiny is what creates it? What if every choice I make is the exact choice that leads me to where I don’t want to go? Am I already taking all the wrong steps by questioning them?
But would that even matter? Would the world re-route around me, nudge things back onto their predestined track no matter what I do?
How do I save us from an ending I can only glimpse in shattered glass and broken screams?
Blair circles the center line. He’s nodding at Hayes. He’s looking at me. I smile at him, and he smiles back. He’s whole and here andalive, and I love him with the devotion of tides that always return no matter how far they’re dragged into the deep.
Every version of me orbits this same truth: he is the fixed point in my universe. No matter how many times reality resets, how many times memory betrays me, he is the center of my soul. There’s no logic to it; all the rules can blur, timelines fracture and fold, but nothing touches the core of what Blair means to me. If love alone could rewrite fate, I’d already have dragged us clear of every nightmare.
I’d give anything—everything—if it meant protecting him. Even when my mind unspools, even when nothing is certain, loving Blair is the single thread I refuse to let go.
If there’s any choice left in me, I’ll use it for him.
Forty-Six
“You seeing this shit, Kicks?”Hayes’s voice booms off the room’s walls. He’s chirping the rookie, Gunter. “Rookie’s got hands, I’ll give him that.”
“He’s gonna be a problem for the other teams,” I say.
Hayes smirks and moves on to hassle Fischer about his dangles.Hayes will crack a joke about Fischer’s mom teaching him those moves. Fischer will flip him off. Svoboda will throw tape?—
The tape ball arcs through the air.
Of course it does. It all happens in perfect sync with the echo already burned into me. Noise swells, all of it familiar, all of it wrong. I close my eyes for half a heartbeat and see another overlay of this room. What am I missing? A trick of light, or the tilt of a memory I can’t fully grasp? My eyes open and land on my broken stick mounted on the wall. The tape on the blade is still stained with black rubber?—
“Yo, Kicks.” Hayes frowns. “You all right, bud?”
Hard to answer that without betraying how off-balance I feel. “Just tired.”
“Tell me about it.” He drops beside me. “Coach is really putting us through the wringer this week. Wish I had amaintenance day today. Excuse to be lazy.” The wink comes exactly when I expect it. “You wanna cancel tonight?”
“Tonight?”
“Dinner? You and Calle and the fam? Lily’s been going crazy without you, but if you’re not feeling it...”
Sweet Lily with her dinosaur obsession and her absolute certainty that I hung the moon. “Yeah, of course.” The muscle in my jaw jumps. “Sorry, I had a long night. After the hit...”
“Yeah, Calle told me. Sorry, man. Concussions suck so much.” His hand waves vaguely at his temple. “I was out for two weeks with my last one. Couldn’t do anything. I sat around until I thought my eyes were going to fall out of my head.”
My eyes sweep the room, hunting for differences, for proof this isn’t a repeat, and drift back to my broken stick. I remember the exact moment it snapped, the crack like breaking bone, but beneath that memory, another one is there, too: looking at this same stick and knowing nothing but confusion, not knowing why it mattered or why it was mounted, not understanding the significance of something broken being worth preserving.
Two memories. Same moment. My stomach turns over, slow and sick. Maybe I’m a ghost, caught between what was and what is?—
“You sure you’re okay? Calle’s worried sick, man.” Hayes studies me for another beat. “Look, if you need anything, you know I’m here for you, yeah? I’m not just Calle’s wingman.”
He means it; this man has become my brother in all but blood, and I want to tell him. I want to grab his arm and saysomething impossible is happeningandI think I’m living through time twiceandI’m terrified of what comes next.
But I can’t, because if I’m wrong, if this is my brain cracking from too many hits, I’ll lose everything, and if I’m right...
“Kicks?”
“I’m good.” The words are steady enough.
The door opens, and the atmosphere of the room shifts, tilting toward the man who steps inside. Blair. His arrival is a quiet rearranging of energy, and every anxiety, every spiraling question in my head, freezes in place.
He fist-bumps on the way to his stall, then strips out of his practice gear and drops it all in a damp heap. He turns, eyes searching the room until they land on me. He smiles.
