Page 85 of The Fall
He strips us clean of excuses before we’ve even uttered them.
Blair stands apart, his eyes cold shards of blue. Hayes is at his shoulder, so close there’s no daylight between the two men.
He hasn’t looked at me once.
Coach’s tone softens. “Make sure this isn’t where it ends for you. Put your ass on the line, every drill, every rep. Don’t give me a reason to make the cut.”
I swallow.
“You’ve got twoweeks,” he says. “Make ‘em count.” He rounds his speech off with a smile. “Good luck.”
I drop the first pass.
The puck bounces wrong. My stick should’ve caught it and dragged it into cradle-smooth control, but no.
Coach’s whistle shrieks. “No time for that shit out here, Kendrick!”
God, I know this drill. I’ve done it a thousand times. This shouldn’t be a riddle, but the puck ricochets off my stick and spins away like it’s got somewhere better to be. These missed plays should shake off the dust and push me back into gear, but all they do is reveal the rift between the Torey I thought I was and the Torey I am. This place holds expectations I can’t meet, and the ice is the world’s most unforgiving mirror, showing me exactly what I never want to see.
We change drills.
Blair splits the ice like he’s cutting a river’s core in two. The agility of his glide, the push and pull of his body, how he marries grace beneath force. He cuts in as I’m supposed to lock mydefensive position down, but I’m late, and he’s around me before I can blink.
He slaps the puck bone-crushingly hard into the net.
The drill whistles to a close, and Blair heads straight off the ice.
Day Six
Today the ice feels like sandpaper, and my blades seem to dull with each stride. Or maybe that’s the vodka from last night. My hotel’s mini-fridge has protein shakes and bottles of vodka, and I down one and then the other every night for dinner. It’s not the best training diet I’ve ever been on.
The ice tugs at my blades, slowing me down when I need speed the most. When I should accelerate, I hesitate. When I should pivot, I’m still thinking about the last move.
“Move your feet, Kendrick!” Coach barks from the boards.
But between the lack of sleep, the vodka, and the emotional crater I’m circling, my body refuses to function. I’m chasing the puck like it owes me something, but it keeps slithering away. I hit the corner, pivot too late, cut too slow. Blair shoots past me, disappearing into the blur of bodies moving up ice. Behind him, Hayes cuts in and cuts out, the puck floating between them.
“Again!” Coach’s whistle slices the air. “Pick it up, Kendrick!”
My quads ache, my ankles fold, and my breath comes short and harsh through clenched teeth.Focus.
Skate wide. Pull tight. I don’t know how many times we’ve run this drill, but gravity’s turned up on me today. I’m dragging. My edges catch wrong as I cross over, and the ice bites back.
The next rush forms around me.
Hayes circles back, collecting a loose puck, and for half a second our eyes meet, and?—
There’s nothing there. He snaps a pass to Blair without looking at me again.
The puck comes my way again. This time I’m ready—or I tell myself I am. I wheel around the defenseman, feeling that old rhythm return, that sense of the game opening up before me. Then Blair charges the crease, shoulders square and stick gripped white-knuckle tight.
His body coils before the shot, every muscle wound spring-tight, and when he releases, the puck screams off his blade. The sound it makes hitting the post rings through the arena like a gunshot, and Axel stumbles back even though the puck never touched him.
Blair wheels hard, ice spraying in an arc that hits my shins.
I bite down on my mouthguard and turn with him, catching the churn from his skates. He cuts across the slot, hips turned in, jaw tight, and rips another from the dot. Axel punches it away with his blocker, the rebound dribbling to my side. Hayes glides in, scoops the loose puck with smooth hands, and taps it out of danger.
“Reset,” Hayes growls softly.
