Page 139 of The Fall

“Then who stands up for you?”

“You think you should?”

“I do.”

His eyes drift shut, lashes dark against his skin. The breath that escapes him—God, it hollows me out. Long and slow and shaking, like he’s been holding it since his body hit the ice.

“Blair—”

He keeps his eyes closed, and when he speaks, his voice scrapes out from somewhere deep inside him. “This can’t happen again.”

Somewhere down the hall, equipment bags zip closed and sticks clatter against concrete. “What can’t happen again? Me defending you? Because that’s not negotiable.”

“No.” The word is absolute. His eyes open. They are no longer unreadable; they are a furious storm. I can’t look away from him.

“We can’t—” He stops himself, jaw clenching. We’re standing too close. The heat rolling off him mingles with mine. His gaze drops to my mouth—a flicker, barely there—before snapping back to my eyes. Then his focus shifts to my taped knuckles. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Let me see, Torey.”

The way he says my name makes me give him my hand. His touch is gentle when he turns my wrist, and his fingers burn worse than the splits in my skin.

“You shouldn’t have fought him,” he says.

“I’d do it again.”

His eyes are too direct, too blue. This corridor is airless. His thumb ghosts over the torn skin of my knuckles again, and the touch echoes through every nerve ending.

“Did you land some decent punches at least?”

“You didn’t see the replay?”

“Oh, Isawit. You fucking psycho.”

I grin. “I think he’ll be dreaming about me for a while.”

He snorts. His touch is careful, at odds with the man who throws those punishing hits on the ice. “You could have fucked yourself up.”

“You were down.”

“You were out of control.”

“Are you seriously mad at me for giving a shit about you?”

Blair’s quiet for a long moment. “No,” he says. “I’m not mad.” His breathing is unsteady. Mine matches his. Another silence blooms between us, until he says, “That was a hell of a fucking goal you scored, eh?”

“Broken-stick shot. I can’t believe it went in.”

“I can. That’s skill.”

“That was also my payback.” I smile at him like sugar won’t melt in my mouth. “Hit ‘em where it hurts in both places, yeah?”

His lip is split, but he looks proud when he chuckles. My blood a hot river beneath my skin and my heart is racing. It’s not from my fight, or the game, or leftover adrenaline—It’s from him. It’s always him.

The low sound of his laugh fades, and the humor vanishes from him. “I can’t—” He stops, swallows hard, and his gaze drops again to my scraped knuckles, still held in his hand. When he lifts his head, his stare pins me to the concrete wall. “Don’t fight for me,” he says. “That’s not what I want.”

“I’ll take on the whole fucking league for you, Blair.”