Page 239 of The Fall
“Last but not least—” His voice softens. “Kicks.”
The guys turn to look at me, but I only have eyes for Blair.
He talks about my performance, about power play percentages and clutch goals, but beneath the captain’s words I hear everything else: every game night when he’s held ice to my bruises after, every whispered confession in the dark about how I make him believe in tomorrow again. And when he calls me elite, the word doesn’t mean what it used to. It doesn’t mean draft rankings or highlight reels or contracts; it means the way I know how he takes his coffee and the laugh I can pull from him that no one else can. It means being the person he reaches for.
“That,” Blair says, “is the clutch performance we are going to deliver. Again. And again.”
Blair doesn’t make promises lightly. When he says again and again, he means forever; he means through playoffs and championships and quiet summers and whatever comes next. Maybe forever.
“I’m proud of all of you.” His gaze is a slow burn across the cabin. “Let’s run the table.”
Memories flicker: shifts I haven’t taken, a horn that hasn’t sounded.
Could I tell him that I’m not okay? What would I say? That sometimes his voice sounds like an echo of itself? That I know things I shouldn’t know? If I tried to explain this feeling of a life I’ve lived twice, of the déjà vu, or the feeling of standing at the edge of something incomprehensible, could I?Blair, something’s wrong, I’ve been here before, I know what happens next?—
He would listen; he would hold me. And it would destroy him. He’d think that my concussions have broken my mind completely, and he’d be ruined with fear for me. Management would bench me. Everything we’ve worked for would unravel because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.
Blair deserves better than that. He deserves the championship and the glory that comes from leading us all the way, not the burden of a partner who’s losing his grip on reality. So I swallow my words, force them down deep where they can’t escape.
Some things can’t be said without breaking the rest.
There is no choice here. How can I possibly consider robbing them of what they’ve fought so hard for? I will not be the one to shatter what we’ve built. I will not strip this away from him.
His eyes hold mine for one more endless second. “Let’s bring it home, boys.” Then he sits, and oxygen rushes back into the world.
The guys erupt, and their roars become a wave that rolls through me.
I will ride this surge with them and with him wherever it goes.
I will not be the rock that breaks this dream.
“Goal line sprints!” Coach barks.
The cold on the practice rink in Philadelphia is a welcome shock, and drills are a comforting, familiar repetition. My body takes over, falling into the rhythm of pass and shoot, skate and stop.
“Move it, move it!” Coach cries. “Quicker transitions!”
Blair’s eyes meet mine as he whips the puck across the blue line. My skates dig in; ice flies. My stick connects, the reverberations shooting up my arms, and I pivot, one fluid motion. The puck slides smoothly between Axel’s pads.
I steal glances at him through drills, the way his body moves, the way his eyes find mine across the ice. Everything here is noise, a prelude. The entire practice is a countdown to when the rink empties and we’re alone.
Coach blows the final whistle, and the guys whoop and holler, practice finally over. I take my time, lingering by the boards, pretending to adjust my gear. Blair does the same. One by one, the others file toward the room, a loud and laughing river of blue and white. Blair and I remain; he glides to center ice, and I meet him there.
This moment, the empty rink, the fluorescent lights humming overhead: I’ve lived this before, down to the way my breath catches when he stops close enough that I can count his eyelashes.
“Show me that give-and-go one more time, eh?” His voice is rough velvet.
We set up, and poetry unfurls between us, nine months of practice made perfect. The puck flows between us like water, like breath. We’ve done this a thousand times and it never gets old.
We finish face-to-face, chests heaving, breaths mingling. His eyes on me are the color of the ocean at midnight, and I want to kiss him until the ice melts beneath our skates. His gloved hand rises, brushing a fleck of ice from my hair. “Torey.”
I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed. He leans forward until our helmets touch. His hand slips behind my neck, drawing me closer. His lips are a fraction from mine. “I love you,” he whispers.
The whole world tilts around the axis of his hands on me. The world peels back, layer by layer. His mouth finds mine, slow at first.
His kiss is a soft, searching question against my lips, a careful pressure asking for all I have.
My stick clatters onto the ice. I fist his jersey, yanking him against me, pads and gear grinding as I melt into him.
