Page 45 of The Fall
I bite into my croissant. Flaky, butter-rich layers dissolve on my tongue. Everything tastes better when you’re happy.
Light fractures through crystal chandeliers, casting prisms across starched tablecloths and glinting off silver utensils. The coffee machine hums softly while my fork scrapes against porcelain. Being first has its advantages.
My phone buzzes beside my water glass.
Blair’s name lights up the screen. He’s sent a picture of himself still in bed, hair tousled, eyes half-lidded with sleep. The sheet drapes low across his hips and his smile is lazy and warm. The message reads
Miss you already.
I miss him, too.
My thumb hovers over the screen. What should I send him back? A picture of my breakfast? A shot of me with chipmunk cheeks stuffed full of pancake?
Something else catches my eye: the last text from my dad.
Dad used to message me after every game—and sometimes during—firing off every thought about what I did, right or wrong. He’d been a constant stream of commentary and unsolicited advice, and his postgame analysis broke down my every play, dissecting each missed shot into its component pieces. It drove me crazy.
Now? He’s only sent a few brief check-ins since I got this new phone a couple of months ago.
Did we fight? About… Blair? But wouldn’t he have said something if he thought Blair was bad for me? Dad has never missed an opportunity to voice his opinion.
Then why the radio silence?
Our last exchange was a few days ago. He’d texted after that hit I don’t remember taking.
Saw the hit. You okay?
I’d never replied, and a few hours later, I bolted awake in Blair’s bed, a year’s worth of memories gone dark.
Did I push him away? Did he give up on me? This quiet feels too much like we’d said goodbye.
The ballroom door swings open and Hayes shambles in, his hair sticking up in five directions. He squints against the bright windows and heads for the coffee station.
“Morning, Kicks,” he says around a jaw-cracking yawn.
“Morning.” The word comes out muffled by croissant. My thoughts remain stuck on all the texts from my dad that aren’t there.
Hayes drops into the chair beside mine and raids my plate. “Save some for the rest of us, yeah?” He snags a sausage link and crams it sideways into his mouth.
“Dude!”
He shrugs, smiles, and chews.
The door opens again. Dominik walks in, followed by Mikko and Simmer. They shuffle toward the buffet before heading to our table with overloaded plates. Reid arrives, then Hollow and Hawks. The chairs fill one by one.
Hayes finally gets up after stealing food from everyone’s plate. Hollow shouts for him to grab a bear claw to replace the one Hayes had swiped.
“So,” Hayes announces to the table when he returns. “What would you rather do: eat nothing but tacos for two weeks or only drink kale smoothies for two weeks?”
“Ugh.” Reid scrunches his face. “Tacos.”
“But—” Hayes tears off a chunk of muffin and talks through chewing it. “What if you were guaranteed at least a goal and an assist every game if you drank the kale smoothies?”
The guys look genuinely troubled, as if this hypothetical scenario requires serious philosophical consideration. Guaranteed points or freedom from kale?
“Where’s Calle?” Hayes turns to me and leans close.
“Still upstairs, I guess.”
