Page 101 of The Fall

Fifty

Hayes’s arm loops around my neck before the elevator doors finish closing. His voice is victory-bright. “Damn, who are you right now? I still cannot believe how lit up you were, Kicks! You were on fire!”

We’re twenty-three hockey players drunk on victory in this cramped elevator, me pressed into the corner with Hayes heavy on my left and Hawks’s elbow digging into my ribs on the right.

The guys shout over each other, replaying goals, hits, each perfect pass from Philly.

Hollow’s recounting his breakaway for the third time.

Then Hayes’s grip on my shoulder shifts, and the walls feel closer than they were ten seconds ago. The wrongness hits me between the shoulder blades, like walking into your childhood home and finding the furniture rearranged by strangers.

I force oxygen into my lungs, focus on?—

Ding.

We spill out onto a Boston rooftop bar. The place is a sleek pocket of quiet wealth, low couches and glass walls that hold out the city’s smeared lights.

Potted palms rustle in the breeze. Everything refracts: the sunset staining the buildings gold and rose, our reflections multiplying in windows, the harbor throwing back pieces of sky.

The air tastes of salt and summer heat, grilled seafood threading through laughter.

Embers pop in a nearby fire pit as the city hums its evening song, car horns and engines and distant sirens weaving.

I hang back while the guys claim tables, their backslaps and raucous voices rising across the rooftop. The view tilts; I’ve stood here before.

I grip the rail harder, let the chill of it steady me. Real metal. Real bruises from the game throbbing beneath my gear. Real sweat still cooling on my skin.

My daily déjà vu comes in softer waves now, less like drowning and more like trespassing through my own life. I think I could deal with the déjà vu if my nightmares would relax their hold on me.

“Hey.”

Blair materializes beside me, leaning back against the rail with his arms crossed. His shoulder inches toward mine, and his warmth radiates between us while memory tugs at my mind. This exact moment, this exact light?—

“Hey.” I shift closer until our shoulders touch.

“You played amazing today.”

The last of the sunlight catches in the dark strands of his hair, traces the hard line of his jaw.

“I was just trying to keep up with you.”

He snorts. “You’ve got that the wrong way around.”

The night shimmers, reality going liquid for one terrifying second before solidifying again.

“Let’s do this, boys!” Hawk’s voice cracks across the roof. “Philly takedown deserves a proper celebration.”

His words yank me back to now. I peel off the rail, and Blair steadies me as we turn toward the tables. The rooftop spins less when he’s near. I follow him to where the team has commandeered a cluster of high-tops.

Hayes raises his beer as we pull out chairs. “To Torey! For being a fucking rock star today!”

The toast ripples through the group. Glasses lift toward me and catch the lights like small suns.

“Seriously,” Hollow adds, “you were incredible out there.”

More toasts follow: to the win, to Simmer’s impossible save, to Reid’s face-off dominance. Blair slides into the seat beside me, his thigh warm against mine. Under the table, his fingers close over my knee, squeeze once. The guys are too busy celebrating to notice how I lean into Blair’s touch.

The team’s voices blend together as they relive the game’s highlights, every save and shot replayed. I nod along, but I’m barely paying attention. Blair’s hand on my knee feels more real than anything else on this rooftop.

A waiter approaches, and the guys immediately shift from celebrating to ordering, their attention redirected to food with the single-minded focus of athletes who burn thousands of calories a day.

They bombard him with orders for obscene amounts of food, and the poor guy scrambles to keep pace with a hockey team’s appetite.

Our waiter’s pen flies across his pad, trying to keep up with requests for extra everything.

Blair shakes his head at the chaos, but he’s smiling.

When he circles to us, Blair orders, “Two virgin pina coladas, please.”

I try not to react as strongly as I want to, but my breath catches. He’s taking a piece of our private history and setting it on the table for the whole team to see. The waiter ticks off the order on his pad and moves on, unaware he just handled something explosive. God, I want?—

A boot connects with my shin under the table. I jerk and curse?—

Hayes stares at me over his beer. His gaze slides to Blair then back to me.

I’m transparent as glass right now, staring at Blair like he hung the moon, and Hayes’s message couldn’t be clearer: dial it back before everyone figures out what we haven’t told them yet.

Blair had said he didn’t care who saw us in Philly, but that was heat, passion, and adrenaline. This is his team and his captaincy. We still haven’t talked about what comes next.

I need to fold these enormous feelings into a smaller shape, one that fits inside the careful lines we’ve drawn.

I lean back, try to look casual, and let the talk of tomorrow’s game against Boston wash over me. Blair is deep in conversation with Axel, captain-serious, but his eyes drift and lock with mine.

The food arrives in waves: shrimp skewers glistening with garlic butter, calamari piled high, lobster rolls overflowing, enough sliders and fries to feed forty.

The guys attack it like they haven’t eaten in days, not hours.

Our drinks arrive, tall and frosty and crowned with tiny paper umbrellas.

Blair catches my eye and winks as he lifts his glass.

“What the hell are those?” Hawk laughs.

“Beach vacation in a glass,” Blair replies. He takes a long sip through his straw, his eyes never leaving mine.

My first sip is pure memory. Sweet coconut and pineapple, thick, cold slush, a perfect echo of lazy days and tangled sheets.

These drinks are coordinates to our history, proof that those two weeks forged and reforged us together.

We were both so desperately in love that we thought we’d die from it.

They taste of home, of him, and I am intoxicated.

Noise swells around us, jabs about sick shots and sweet passes, comfortable chirping between linemates, a dozen conversations happening at once.

“Dude, quit hogging the fries?—”

“That saucer pass in the third?—”

“Hey, Kicks.” Hayes’s mouth is full of calamari. “What do you want to do after all this?”

After. The word tastes like ash, like endings I can’t quite see. “I’ve never thought that far ahead.”

“You’re not one of those guys who’s got a plan for life after the game?”

“Not really.” My gaze finds Blair’s across the table. He’s listening to Axel, but his attention curves toward me. “I think life is pretty awesome right now.”

That’s an understatement so vast it is a lie, and Hayes knows. His gaze ping-pongs between me and Blair, softer this time. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I think I want everything I’ve got. Forever.”

In nine months, I’ve gone from wanting to disappear to wanting to live forever. Blair did that. This team did that. Hockey did that, when I learned to love it again through Blair’s eyes.

Hayes’ chewing slows. He lifts his beer, and I raise my ridiculous umbrella drink.

We toast above demolished sliders, and he says, “I’m happy for you,” with the weight of someone who’s watched love bloom in real time.

His eyes shift to Blair. Brotherhood; that’s what I’m seeing.

Hayes loves Blair like a brother, and somehow that protection is extending to include me.

Blair reaches for fries and our shoulders collide and stick. His touch sears through my shirt. He always runs hot, but tonight he’s a furnace, and I want to burn.

Conversation flows. The guys debate strategy, place bets on who will score first (Hawks picks himself), and who will take the first penalty (unanimous vote for Blair). Meanwhile, I’m drowning in the sweet torture of Blair’s touch as his thumb moves in circles on my jeans.

Strategies fly. Blair pulls salt shakers and knives into formation, diagramming plays on the table.

When he gets like this, I understand why the team would follow him anywhere.

Hockey flows through him like blood, defining him.

His voice is low and intense, and everyone is captivated. I am captivated.

Hayes points his bottle at Blair. “Calle, you’ve got to keep your head screwed on when you’re out there tomorrow. You can’t let them get in your head.”

Blair raises his hands. “I know, I know.”

“Yeah? You sure?” Hayes pushes. “Because I saw you getting worked up out there in Philly.”

“They’re trying to get under my skin?—”

“And they know how to do it.” Hayes’s eyes cut to me for a fraction of a second.

Because of me. Because teams have figured out that going after me is the way to break Blair’s careful control.

Hollow interrupts from beside him. “You’re a fucking rock star, Calle. You don’t need to worry about any of those scrubs.”

Hayes leans back in his chair. “You do remember what happened the last time we played Boston? When was that, right before New Year’s?”

Blair heaves a heavy sigh and slumps in his chair, glare fixed on Hayes. “Here we go.”

Hayes has drawn the attention of the rest of the table, and he knows it.

He clears his throat. “Picture this: there’s five minutes left on the clock we’re down by two.

Boston’s crowd is howling for blood. We’ve got nothing left in the tank.

” His grin turns full-Cheshire. “Until some brilliant Boston plug decides to piss off Calle.”

Blair rolls his eyes. His cheeks flush that perfect shade of maroon I’ve kissed a hundred times.

“Boston decides the smartest play they can do is to take out our man here.” Hayes points at me with his fork. “Wheton comes in high and catches Kicks right across the cheek.”