Page 271 of The Fall
“I know,” I whisper. Blair drops a kiss to my temple.
For a moment, none of us speaks, until Dad exhales slowly. “While we were watching over you, all I could think was that I might never be able to tell you how proud I am of you.” His voice falters, and he looks down at his hands.
My eyes travel over his deep-etched lines of exhaustion and regret. He’s been sitting at my side, fearing that my life was over, that he’d never get to say these words to me.
“I pushed you so hard,” he continues, his voice rough. “I thought I was helping you build a future, but...” He shakes his head. “All that joy you used to have... when it started to fade, that’s what I couldn’t stand.” Regret runs through him.
A fresh tear slides down my cheek. All the arguments over missed shots and extra drills, all the silent car rides home after a bad game—they shift in my history, smear from judgment to a desperate, clumsy love. “I thought if I was perfect on the ice, if I scored enough goals and won enough games, you’d?—”
He looks up, his eyes pleading. “I haven’t been the father you needed, Torey, but I have never, not for one second, ever stopped loving you. There’s nothing that could ever make me stop loving you. Not how you play, or whether you play, or who you love. Nothing.”
My tears come without warning, and I cling to him. He holds me the same way he held me when I was small and scared of storms, or when I fell during my first skating lesson, or when I cried over not making a team I’d set my heart on.
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Everything’s okay. You’re okay.” His arms tighten around me as my tears soak his shirt. For so long, I’ve been chasing his approval, but now he’s here, holding me.
“I never stopped wanting to make you proud,” I tell him, my voice catching. “Even when I was angry.”
He nods, and holds my face in both of his hands. “I know. And I never stopped being proud, even when I couldn’t say it.” His thumbs wipe away my tears. “I wish I’d told you sooner,” he says, dropping his hands but staying close. “That it didn’t take something like this…”
A weak smile touches my lips. “We’re both pretty stubborn.”
“Wonder where you got that from.”
He draws his chair closer to my bed. I take his hand and hold on; the distance between us is smaller than it has been in years.
Dad settles in like he’s not going anywhere. It’s strange to see him without a phone in his hand, answering emails or fielding calls. I’m his only priority; not his job, not my hockey, not anything but me, his son.
“Your team’s been by,” he says. “Hayes wanted me to tell you that Lily sends her love. And a guy named Hollow left you seventeen bags of gummy worms.”
“Of course he did.”
“Blair made sure I knew how much your whole team loves you.” His voice roughens again. “Seeing you happy is all I’ve ever wanted.”
All those months of space between us, of careful texts about weather and food and trying to figure out how to be father and son without hockey as our only language, and here he is, seeing me—really seeing me—for the first time. “I am happy, Dad.”
“I know. I’msoproud of you, Torey.”
Blair’s been so quiet, giving Dad and me this moment we needed, but now he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles.
Dad’s gaze shifts to Blair. “We’ve gotten to know each other pretty well, Blair and I.”
I look between them—my father and the man I love—and it hits me: they’ve been taking care of each other. While I was floating in darkness, they sat together in this room, waiting for me to return.
“So you guys, um... talked?”
“We’ve had great talks,” my father says, his smile warming. “While we were waiting for you to wake up.” He reaches out and places his hand over where mine and Blair’s are joined.
I try to picture Blair and my father side by side, hour after hour. What did they say to each other while doctors and nurses came and went?
I get my answer. “I’ve been telling Blair stories about you.”
“Dad, no?—”
“Remember the time you refused to leave the rink until you’d scored fifty goals in a row. Seven years old, middle of January, thirty below outside, and this kid?—”
“Dad.”
Blair’s mouth quirks. “And about your first pair of skates. You really slept with them on?”
