Page 80 of The Fall
“Sir—sir, wake up.”
Someone is shaking me.
“Sir. Wake up. Are you?—”
All at once, blinding light hits my eyelids. I jerk upright and try to scramble away, blinking against the glare—white light, can’t see, too much light.
“Sir.” The voice is clearer now. Sterner. I see heavy boots, a uniform. A badge glinting.
The light drops from my eyes, and a state trooper stands in front of me, backlit by swirling red-and-blues and a floodlight centered on me from the dash of his SUV. “You all right?”
“I—I…” I shake my head. “I—was…”
“Have you been drinking tonight, sir? Using anything?”
I almost want to laugh. Tonight, no. Every single other night, yes, but tonight, no. I may be slipping and sliding toward oblivion, but I’m going down alone. I won’t drink and drive. “No, I haven’t.”
“You collapse on the side of the road often?”
I sniff.
He puts me through the full field sobriety test: walk the line, touch your nose, recite the alphabet. Blow. I pass, but he’s not happy. I’m still shuddering, and I can’t string more than three words together.
“What the hell did you take tonight?” he asks again.
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I whisper. “Nothing, I?—”
I was going to the beach.
Would he have been on duty when they found my truck parked on the sand? Would he have been the one to call it in, reading off the license plate? Would he have been the one to hear my name spat back in static?
He has no idea what to do with me. “You’re a professional hockey player?”
He’s run my ID, and he knows I’m Torey Kendrick of the Vancouver Orcas. If I were someone else, maybe that would mean something, but because it’s me, it probably means less. I nod.
“Well, you’re not driving out of here. Who can you call to come pick you up?”
Who can I call? “No one,” I manage. “I don’t have—there’s no one?—”
“A teammate? A coach?” He looks at me like I’m an embarrassment to the city, to the proud place he serves and protects.
“I don’t?—”
“Look, you call someone, or you’re under arrest.”
It’s final; his decision. My choice.
I stare at my phone like it’s a loaded gun. Finally, I press “Call.” It rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Yeah?”
There’s no more room to hide. “Coach…” The silence stretches between us. I picture him, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, way beyond done with me.
“Kendrick? What’s going on?”
“I—” My throat locks. “I need—” My words drop dead before they can crawl out.
“Let me talk to him.” The trooper holds out his hand.
