Page 244 of The Fall
“You’re not one of those guys who’s got a plan for life after the game?”
“Not really.” My gaze finds Blair’s across the table. He’s listening to Axel, but his attention curves toward me. “I think life is pretty awesome right now.”
That’s an understatement so vast it is a lie, and Hayes knows. His gaze ping-pongs between me and Blair, softer this time. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, I think I want everything I’ve got. Forever.”
In nine months, I’ve gone from wanting to disappear to wanting to live forever. Blair did that. This team did that. Hockey did that, when I learned to love it again through Blair’s eyes.
Hayes’ chewing slows. He lifts his beer, and I raise my ridiculous umbrella drink. We toast above demolished sliders, and he says, “I’m happy for you,” with the weight of someone who’s watched love bloom in real time. His eyes shift to Blair. Brotherhood; that’s what I’m seeing. Hayes loves Blair like a brother, and somehow that protection is extending to include me.
Blair reaches for fries and our shoulders collide and stick. His touch sears through my shirt. He always runs hot, but tonight he’s a furnace, and I want to burn.
Conversation flows. The guys debate strategy, place bets on who will score first (Hawks picks himself), and who will take the first penalty (unanimous vote for Blair). Meanwhile, I’m drowning in the sweet torture of Blair’s touch as his thumb moves in circles on my jeans.
Strategies fly. Blair pulls salt shakers and knives into formation, diagramming plays on the table. When he gets like this, I understand why the team would follow him anywhere.Hockey flows through him like blood, defining him. His voice is low and intense, and everyone is captivated. I am captivated.
Hayes points his bottle at Blair. “Calle, you’ve got to keep your head screwed on when you’re out there tomorrow. You can’t let them get in your head.”
Blair raises his hands. “I know, I know.”
“Yeah? You sure?” Hayes pushes. “Because I saw you getting worked up out there in Philly.”
“They’re trying to get under my skin?—”
“And they know how to do it.” Hayes’s eyes cut to me for a fraction of a second.
Because of me. Because teams have figured out that going after me is the way to break Blair’s careful control.
Hollow interrupts from beside him. “You’re a fucking rock star, Calle. You don’t need to worry about any of those scrubs.”
Hayes leans back in his chair. “You do remember what happened the last time we played Boston? When was that, right before New Year’s?”
Blair heaves a heavy sigh and slumps in his chair, glare fixed on Hayes. “Here we go.”
Hayes has drawn the attention of the rest of the table, and he knows it. He clears his throat. “Picture this: there’s five minutes left on the clock we’re down by two. Boston’s crowd is howling for blood. We’ve got nothing left in the tank.” His grin turns full-Cheshire. “Until some brilliant Boston plug decides to piss off Calle.”
Blair rolls his eyes. His cheeks flush that perfect shade of maroon I’ve kissed a hundred times.
“Boston decides the smartest play they can do is to take out our man here.” Hayes points at me with his fork. “Wheton comes in high and catches Kicks right across the cheek.”
These are the kinds of things that burn themselves into memory, but I have two playing simultaneously. My head reels,trying to track which memories are real and which version of events I lived. I remember this game, remember the sting of the trainer’s needle, the way Blair’s eyes went dark when he saw blood on my jersey, and I also remember hearing this story and having no idea what was about to come out of Hayes’s mouth next. I remember being lost, everyone knowing what had happened and what I’d done. Last time?—
No.
There was no last time. That didn’t happen. That was all in my head, all made up. That was a concussion; I dreamed of Tampa, but that life wasn’t… It wasn’t real.
If I keep repeating it, will it become true?
“Kicks goes down, hard,” Hayes continues. “And that’s when our fearless captain here loses his goddamn mind.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“On the contrary, Captain, you were.” Hayes smiles and tips his beer toward Blair. “You dropped the gloves before Wheton even knew what hit him. Just absolutely demolished the guy, old-school, feed him all-day-long hockey justice.”
Blair’s knee pushes against mine, steady pressure that saysI’d do it again.
“So Kicks goes to the tunnel to get sewn up,” Hayes barrels on, “and we go on the power play. And when our boy Kicks comes back for the next face-off, three fresh stitches decorating that pretty face, what does he do?”
