Page 49 of The Fall
Blair dangles, drawing two opponents.
Ten seconds.
The goalie challenges. I fake left, go right. He bites.
Drop pass, back to the high slot?—
Five seconds.
Blair is there. I feel it. I don’t see him, but that doesn’t matter. I know he’s right where I need him to be.
The arena goes silent as we take the shot?—
Three. Two.
Goal.
Eleven
Pittsburgh winks at me,a million tiny lights scattered against the night sky beyond Blair’s hotel room window. The city is blurred gold and crimson against an endless dark sky.
I lean into Blair’s touch. He’s propped up against the headboard, and I have my head in his lap. We’re both balancing bags of ice somewhere on our bodies, his on his shoulder, mine on my thigh.
Exhaustion tugs at me, but beneath it, my mind blazes.
We’resoclose. We need two more wins, and there are two more games left in the season. We play Pittsburgh, and then we fly back to Tampa, where the last game of the season will decide it all.
Win and we’re in.
Lose and it’s all over.
The Mutineers haven’t gone to the playoffs in over two decades. If we make it, it will be the first playoff run for this team under Blair’s leadership, and for Blair himself.
I have to get Blair there. I will do everything that’s possible inside of me, force each and every atom of my being to get him to the playoffs.
“Remember when this all felt impossible?”
These are the first words he’s spoken in almost an hour. When Blair is wound tight, he goes quiet, plotting each word before letting it out.
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the season or about us. I catch his hand. I brush my lips against the back of his knuckles.
He kisses my fingers in return and goes back to massaging my scalp. I bury my cheek against his cotton-covered thigh. I feel the heat of him beneath me, the gentle threading of his hands in my hair, and I am lulled, soothed.
“I think we’ve got a shot.” His voice is sanded and soft, a sound that reminds me of late practices and too many nights without sleep.There’s the faintest, quietest tremor in his words.
Lamplight paints Blair’s profile in sharp relief, the strong line of his jaw, the thick sweep of his lashes against his cheek. Tension plays around his mouth, and a slight furrow forms between his brows. He’s been striving and fighting and aching for this opportunity. Now he’s holding his breath, sweat and hope between him and this chance. His gaze falls to mine, a universe of blue in his eyes.
“We do,” I breathe.
His eyes flare, fragile and frantic and ferocious. It guts me, seeing him look anything less than invincible.
There’s a beauty there, too. It’s the rawest form of trust, to be seen wanting, hopeful, trembling and on the edge.
For you, I think. I will win this for you. I will do everything and anything for you.
Someone slams their fist against his door, and the delicate scaffolding of the moment shatters.
I snap my head up, my jaw tensing. Blair stills for a beat, two. Then he’s up, climbing out of bed, leaving a cold void in his wake.
