Page 36 of The Fall
My stick hits the ice as I grab fistfuls of his jersey, yanking him against me. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding hot against mine, tasting me like I’m what he’s been starving for. I moan into him.
For a moment, there’s nothing but our mouths, hungry and needy, our breath mingling and the scrape of stubble. I’m greedy for more, more friction, more of everything he’s willing to give under these unforgiving lights.
Heat pools in me, my cock straining as he fits his thigh between my legs. I don’t want this to end. God, I can’t let it end. The ice beneath us and the empty arena around us fade. There’s only this hunger, this unbearable need to be closer to him.
This is it, this scorching, perfect connection.Thisis what I’ve craved my whole life, this feeling of finally, finally being in theone place I was always meant to be, with the one person I was always meant to be there with.
A door slams shut, the sound cracking through the quiet surrounding us. Blair pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes wide and searching mine.
Coach? Security? A teammate coming back for something forgotten? God, we’re right in the middle of the rink. Anyone could see us. Forget my joke of a career, what about Blair? Photos could already be uploading, the NHL’s newest secret scandal. Everything changes if the wrong person sees us.
“Blair,” I whisper. “Someone could see.”
But he doesn’t pull away. He exhales and drops his helmet to mine again. “I don’t care.” His eyes are fierce, resolute.
My heart stutters. The world becomes the dark flash of his gaze and the hot fog of our mingled breath. A tremor runs through his hand where it cups my jaw, steady but enough to reveal so much more beneath his words.
I want to say something brave that matches the certainty in his eyes and answers the fear we’re both feeling, but I can’t. I knot my fingers in his jersey, not ready to let go.
“But I know we need to talk about that,” he says.
He pulls back and clears his throat. The sound is small, but it echoes between us, sharp as a skate edge on fresh ice. There’s a depth to his voice, an echo of a conversation I can’t remember.
He lets his hand fall away slowly, reluctantly. My skin tingles where his glove was, a ghost imprint that won’t let go.
“The boys will be wondering where we are.”
I want to reach for him again, bridge that tiny distance. Say something, something that will make sense of all this heat and fear tangled together inside me. A thousand words hover on my tongue, but my voice dies. The moment stretches, then dissolves.
He wets his lips like he’s about to speak again, but instead he nods and lets out a breath that fogs between us. I let go of his jersey, feeling each thread slip through my fingers.
We skate off the ice together, a foot of space between us.
My heart is hammering as I stand outside room 214. It’s Blair’s room, and I trace the numbers with my fingertip.
I can’t stop thinking about practice, about his lips against mine, and the heat of his touch in the middle of the rink.
What if we weren’t a secret anymore? I’ve spent so long hiding, and the thought of being open about who I am, and who we are to each other…
I’ve never, ever considered it. I have never, before two days ago, thought I’d even be here, trying to understand what it means towantto be out, to be a professional athlete in love with a man. It’s so much, and it’s happening so fast?—
But it’s not. I’ve been working up to this for a year, haven’t I?
What would it be like to love him openly? I imagine us at team dinners, his arm draped casually over my shoulders, sharing plates and stealing bites from each other’s forks. Could I kiss him at center ice after a win?
I imagine telling my dad. My dad, God, why hasn’t he called in the past two days? He usually blows up my phone beforeandafter my games. Did I—does he already know? Did it go… badly?
It doesn’t matter. Blair’s worth it. We’re worth it.
I want this, I wanthim, and I wantus, bathed in sunlight instead of lurking in shadows. I’m still high on the taste of him, on the way he kissed me, a kiss that claimed me.
The hallway feels too narrow, and I’m too far away from him. I rap my knuckles against the door before I can second-guess myself. From inside their rooms, I hear the low rustle of my teammates’ TVs, the sound of their voices as they talk on the phone with their wives and girlfriends and parents.
I hold my breath, waiting.
Footsteps approach. The deadbolt disengages.
His hotel room door swings open, and there he is, filling the doorway. Blair Callahan, dark hair and broad shoulders, his eyes the deep blue of the ocean. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that hugs his shoulders, the sleeves tight against his biceps, and his chest is wide enough to hold the world.
