Page 35 of The Fall
I have never felt so completely alive.
Coach’s whistle blows, and the moment fractures. Blair bumps his glove against mine.
“Water break!”
The boards rattle as Blair coasts into them beside me. We are shoulder-to-elbow-to-knee, our chests rising and falling, our heat mingling in the cold air. Our skates are inches apart. The world outside this small space, outside the scent of his sweat and the sound of his breathing, is a muted hum.
Sweat soaks me, but inside, I’m burning. Blair squirts water into his mouth and all over his face without ever taking his eyes off me. “Looking good out there.”
“You, too,” I manage.
Every time he breathes, it’s all I can do not to melt. The only thing that could make this practice better would be him pushing me into these boards, right here, right now, ice forgotten.
God, I’m fixated. I want to trace every bead of sweat rolling down his neck with my tongue.
I want to pull him into a dark corner of this rink, strip off his gear piece by piece, here amid the echoes of sticks and shouts and Coach’s whistle, get my hands inside those pants, get my fingers around his cock. Everything in me screams to pin himagainst the boards, taste the salt of his sweat on my lips. I want to grind against him until we’re both shaking, until?—
I’m throbbing, imagining my lips and my hands on every inch of him from the neck down.
Hayes thunks against the boards beside me, nudging me with his shoulder. “Rocking it, Kicks.”
Where the fuck am I? Right, practice. It takes me a second to find my voice. “Yeah?”
“Hell yeah.” Hayes grins. “You know this is practice, right?”
“Feels good to push.” It’s not only hockey I’m trying to get out of my system, though. Clearly. Every stride, every shot, every bead of sweat is a poor substitute for what I really want. It’s all a stand-in, and it’s not enough, but it’s the only way I can keep from combusting right here on the ice.
Hayes cuts his eyes toward Blair, who’s turned to talk to Divot. “Or,” Hayes says, “you like to show off.”
I slam my elbow into his stomach, and he laughs. Blair looks back over, and our eyes meet again.
How did I ever live without this feeling?
Practice eventually ends with Coach giving us a pep talk for our game tonight against Philly. Once he’s done, the guys start skating off, eager to hit the showers, get back to the hotel, pack away a couple thousand calories at lunch, and go lights-out for the pregame nap.
I linger, cutting lazy circles at center ice.
Blair hangs back, too, watching me.
The guys glide past, their voices fading until we’re the only ones left under the lights.
“Show me that give-and-go one more time,” he says.
We move into position, our gazes still fixed on each other. He skates hard down the boards, cuts sharp, and I shadow his every move. He slides the pass tape-to-tape. I return it. We are two halves of a single motion, a perfect, unspoken rhythm. Wefinish and come to a screaming stop chest-to-chest, breathing each other in.
He reaches up, brushing his gloved hand against my cheek. A fleck of ice from my hair falls and melts against his glove.
“Torey.” My name is a quiet vibration in the air between us.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. There is only the rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his body so close to mine. He leans forward until our helmets touch. He traces my jaw with his fingers. I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning into his touch.Kiss me, please.
He slides his hand behind my neck, drawing me closer. Our lips are a breath apart.
“I love you,” he whispers.
Everything stills.
Then there is no space left at all. He surges in, his mouth claiming mine. His lips are rough from the cold, and the salt of his sweat and the faint bitterness of the rink air on his skin pull me deeper into him. His salt and my adrenaline rush through me like fire in my veins.
