Page 255 of The Fall
Those nightmare fragments keep circling, vultures patient for their meal. Water. Glass. Falling. Free fall?—
“Blair,” I whisper. “I don’t know how to save us.”
Dawn seeps through the windows. The sheets twist around our legs, holding us captive in their warmth. Blair’s breath ghosts across my scalp, each exhale gentle. He shifts, his chin grazing my forehead.
This is how all mornings should be, the two of us together, his body heat still a second skin against mine. His arm tightens reflexively around my waist, holding me closer even in sleep.
I trace a fingertip along his ribs, counting each one like a rosary. I should slip away before the world catches us tangled together, but I stall. I want to leave another lazy kiss along his jaw, pull the sheets over our head, and love him for hours and hours and hours.
But I ease myself out from under his arm. His hand reaches across the mattress for me as he rolls and snorts.
My clothes lie crumpled where we shed them last night, my jeans inside-out, my shirt twisted into a knot. My hair is a wreck, an unfixable map of where his hands were. The proof of what we’ve been up to is written all over me. Nobody can mistake me for a guy who slept alone.
I slip out and close the door behind me. The hallway is washed pale by dawn, empty except for my heartbeat. Every step away from Blair feels like a dare. How long can I carry the taste of his skin, the imprint of his arms? My hands drift over rumpled seams as I right my shirt. There’s something— Something I should remember?—
Hawks rounds the corner, his sweat-darkened tank clinging to his shoulders, a water bottle swinging in his hand. He clocks me, and his gaze rakes me from head-to-toe, flickers to the number on Blair’s door, then returns to my face.
Fuck. That’s what it was.
“Early film study, Kicks?”
I force my face into something that doesn’t scream I just spent the night with Blair. “Always room for improvement.”
“That’s my man. Always grinding. That’s why you’ve got the golden hands.”His fist comes up for a bump, and I knock mine to his. He winks. “Catch you at breakfast, bro.”
Two minutes left. The score is a knot, tied and waiting for a blade to cut it. Blair is a solid line to my right; Hollow guards my left. Pittsburgh is a shifting wall of black and gold.
My teammates move around me, resetting, and we gather behind the dot. “Switch,” Blair says. “Mikko, pinch in.”
The puck drops, and I drive my edges into the ice. Mikko surges forward, his stick a blur, fighting for possession.
A Pittsburgh player slips free, cutting a clear path to Axel’s net. The arena surges, bellowing for blood, and for one suspended moment, I am back on the ice in Vancouver as my own failure unfolds.
I catch the player as his stick flexes to take the shot, but it’s not enough. Axel throws himself across the crease, though, and his blocker connects, punching the puck high.
Hayes collects it. I shout his name, slap my stick on the ice. He passes to me as two Pittsburgh players cream him into the boards.
The rink opens up for me, and I read through all the layers of movement: defenders spreading wide to cut off passing lanes, Blair ghosting into position on my wing. The clock is bleeding seconds. There’s under a minute left now.
I feint, drawing the defense with me, then slide the puck to Hollow. He takes it cleanly, weaving through a check, while Blair opens an impossible lane and accelerates toward the net. I skate into the slot as Hollow holds the puck, drawing their defenseman and closing angles. He drops a pass to Hayes at the point; Hayes shoots it to Blair. The goalie slides, anticipating Blair’s shot, and Blair begins his windup. The goalie commits, a gambler going all in.
And Blair, my Blair, passes; he lasers the puck across the crease to me. It meets my stick with a hard, clean shock that travels up my arms.
My blades bite. My wrists twist, and the puck soars?—
And the goal horn wails.
I thrust both arms skyward. Euphoria explodes through me as the red light bathes the ice while that beautiful horn keeps screaming.
Blair crashes into me, wrapping me up before we are lost in the mess of the noise of the crowd and the post-game music. “Fuck, I love you,” Blair shouts.
Hollow and Hayes arrive, and we are buried in a pileup against the boards. “Only one more left, baby!” Hayes cries. “One fucking more!”
Blair’s gloved hand lands on the back of my neck. He pulls me forward until our helmets touch. A photographer’s lens flashes behind us, capturing a moment I know I will die to protect.
“Only with you,” Blair says, his voice for me alone. “Only with you.”
And I think,whatever comes, it begins and ends with you.
