Page 243 of The Fall
“You played amazing today.”
The last of the sunlight catches in the dark strands of his hair, traces the hard line of his jaw.
“I was just trying to keep up with you.”
He snorts. “You’ve got that the wrong way around.”
The night shimmers, reality going liquid for one terrifying second before solidifying again.
“Let’s do this, boys!” Hawk’s voice cracks across the roof. “Philly takedown deserves a proper celebration.”
His words yank me back to now. I peel off the rail, and Blair steadies me as we turn toward the tables. The rooftop spins less when he’s near. I follow him to where the team has commandeered a cluster of high-tops.
Hayes raises his beer as we pull out chairs. “To Torey! For being a fucking rock star today!”
The toast ripples through the group. Glasses lift toward me and catch the lights like small suns.
“Seriously,” Hollow adds, “you were incredible out there.”
More toasts follow: to the win, to Simmer’s impossible save, to Reid’s face-off dominance. Blair slides into the seat beside me, his thigh warm against mine. Under the table, his fingers close over my knee, squeeze once. The guys are too busy celebrating to notice how I lean into Blair’s touch.
The team’s voices blend together as they relive the game’s highlights, every save and shot replayed. I nod along, but I’m barely paying attention. Blair’s hand on my knee feels more real than anything else on this rooftop.
A waiter approaches, and the guys immediately shift from celebrating to ordering, their attention redirected to food with the single-minded focus of athletes who burn thousands of calories a day. They bombard him with orders for obscene amounts of food, and the poor guy scrambles to keep pace with a hockey team’s appetite. Our waiter’s pen flies across his pad, trying to keep up with requests for extra everything. Blair shakes his head at the chaos, but he’s smiling.
When he circles to us, Blair orders, “Two virgin piña coladas, please.”
I try not to react as strongly as I want to, but my breath catches. He’s taking a piece of our private history and setting it on the table for the whole team to see. The waiter ticks off the order on his pad and moves on, unaware he just handled something explosive. God, I want?—
A boot connects with my shin under the table. I jerk and curse?—
Hayes stares at me over his beer. His gaze slides to Blair then back to me.
I’m transparent as glass right now, staring at Blair like he hung the moon, and Hayes’s message couldn’t be clearer: dial it back before everyone figures out what we haven’t told them yet.
Blair had said he didn’t care who saw us in Philly, but that was heat, passion, and adrenaline. This is his team and his captaincy. We still haven’t talked about what comes next.
I need to fold these enormous feelings into a smaller shape, one that fits inside the careful lines we’ve drawn.
I lean back, try to look casual, and let the talk of tomorrow’s game against Boston wash over me. Blair is deep in conversation with Axel, captain-serious, but his eyes drift and lock with mine.
The food arrives in waves: shrimp skewers glistening with garlic butter, calamari piled high, lobster rolls overflowing, enough sliders and fries to feed forty. The guys attack it like they haven’t eaten in days, not hours. Our drinks arrive, tall and frosty and crowned with tiny paper umbrellas. Blair catches my eye and winks as he lifts his glass.
“What the hell are those?” Hawk laughs.
“Beach vacation in a glass,” Blair replies. He takes a long sip through his straw, his eyes never leaving mine.
My first sip is pure memory. Sweet coconut and pineapple, thick, cold slush, a perfect echo of lazy days and tangled sheets. These drinks are coordinates to our history, proof that those two weeks forged and reforged us together. We were both so desperately in love that we thought we’d die from it. They taste of home, of him, and I am intoxicated.
Noise swells around us, jabs about sick shots and sweet passes, comfortable chirping between linemates, a dozen conversations happening at once.
“Dude, quit hogging the fries?—”
“That saucer pass in the third?—”
“Hey, Kicks.” Hayes’s mouth is full of calamari. “What do you want to do after all this?”
After. The word tastes like ash, like endings I can’t quite see. “I’ve never thought that far ahead.”
