Page 14 of The Fall

Seven

“Kicks, catch!”

I snag the flying protein bar out of reflex. Hollow grins from across the lounge, already tearing into his own. He catches my eye and winks. My stomach twists. Is this something we do?

Our lounge in the private terminal at Tampa’s airport buzzes; preflight energy hums as my teammates sprawl across leather chairs and couches. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the tarmac, where the pilot is on his final walk-around, moving into and out of shadows.

A phone chimes. Someone curses. The air is charged, a mix of pregame jitters and road trip excitement.

Svoboda’s sprawled, long limbs akimbo, snoring softly.

How he sleeps through Novak and Fischer’s heated FIFA battle on their phones is beyond me.

Their trash talk flies back and forth in a mix of German and Czech. Mikko rolls his eyes.

“Children,” he says. A half-empty energy drink sits forgotten by his elbow.

I glance at Simmer, lying across two chairs, his snapback pulled low. Divot has his nose buried in a book. Hawks fidgets with his phone, his thumbs flying over the screen. He flashes a smile. Who’s he texting? A girlfriend? I should know this.

I bounce my foot at Mach 3 and bite down on a hangnail I’ve been worrying at since the bus dropped us at the terminal.

What if I get on that plane and everything I’m barely holding on to slips away? What if I wake up tomorrow and this time I’ve forgotten how to play hockey? Or what if Blair isn’t burned into my soul, and the bodily memory of his touch is gone, and he becomes only the ghost of a ghost?

What if I’m not partway to rebuilding my memories but halfway to losing them completely?

Fuck. I need to get a grip. I shove the fear down as deep as it can go. Whatever caused this—and fuck, I wish I had a clue what the hell happened—it doesn’t matter. I’m living this life, right here, right now, and I have to keep pushing forward.

I keep looking at Blair. By the fifth time, he catches me, and I flush, staring at my feet. When I look back, he’s smiling at me.

If anyone notices, this secret we’re guarding is out .

I’d put two and two together: we aren’t out, and we’re keeping this relationship quiet, except for Hayes. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, and somewhere in the wreckage of my mind, our story is written.

Blair drops into the seat beside me and winks.

I ignite. How many times has he looked at me like that in the past year?

How many times have I melted like this, my knees weak and heat rushing under my skin?

He makes me want to drop to my knees and part his thighs in front of everyone, fuck the secrecy, fuck the NHL, let me bury my face in the heat of his?—

He shifts, and his arm brushes against me. His warmth bleeds through my suit. I shiver down to my toes.

Blair takes out his tablet and pulls up our playbook. The Xs and Os swim before my eyes. “So I’m thinking if we cycle it back to the point here?—”

And it all clicks into place. The play snaps into focus. I picture myself cycling back, drawing the defense, creating space. This is proof, isn’t it, that not everything is lost?

I lean closer to Blair, half to study the play and half to feel the hard bulge of his biceps against my chest. Has he ever held me down? Held me to him, held me from behind?—

I clear my throat. “Yeah, and if I drop it back to you here,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. “You’ll have a clear lane.”

Blair’s eyes light up. “Exactly.”

Slowly, it seeps back in. This is what I know, the ice and the game.

“We match up well with Philly,” he says. “What are your thoughts on the forecheck? Want to get physical or stick to puck pursuit?”

He’s mapping out game plans, but I’m drawing up completely different routes, ones that end with him on his back and me in his lap.

He smells so fucking clean, and I want to get him alone and make him filthy.

Blair naked, his body hard against mine, pinning my hands above my head, me writhing under him, his breath hot against my neck as he takes control ? —

My focus frays. I’m half here, half lost in the heat of him.

He keeps pulling me back with his voice while my thoughts wander to dangerous places.

I’m lost in a vision of him stripping me bare.

His knee brushes mine, accidental or not, and my body flares; his touch is a burn that ignites everything I’m trying to smother.

I imagine him digging his fingers into my hips, pulling me closer, his growl vibrating through me?—

He leans in, lowering his voice. “You good? You seemed a little off earlier.”

My thoughts blank, still on visions of Blair above me. Blanking this wall of lust is a Herculean task. I clear my throat. “I’m good. Let’s get nasty up there. Pin them deep and punch it home.”

He smiles.

I want to lick every inch of his body. I want him to kiss each and every inch of mine, until I’m boneless and begging?—

“Hey, Cap!” Hawks blurts. Blair’s attention snaps from me. “What’s your take on stick flex? I swear Bauer’s lying about their ratings.”

And like that, I’m adrift—untethered.

Their voices fade to white noise, and I retreat into my mind, trying to pull up memories. There’s nothing, nothing at all, only a void where yesterday and last week and last month and last year should be.

I do remember this morning at least, so my short-term memory seems intact. I’d checked in with Dr. Lin as ordered. She has seen through too much bullshit shoveled by too many players in her career. She knew I was lying before I opened my mouth.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good. Ready for Philly.”

Her gaze held mine a beat too long.

“Torey, I need you to be honest with me. Are you experiencing any memory loss beyond the immediate impact?”

The truth had hovered on the tip of my tongue, but admitting to losing an entire year? That would mean being benched, getting tests, seeing specialists. I’d be taken off the team. I’d be taken away from?—

“No.” I’d shrugged. “It was the hit. I think it rattled me a little harder than I thought.”

She kept staring at me. “This isn’t something to take lightly.”

Maybe not, but this version of me is happy, successful, loved. I’m not fucking losing this life. “I’m fine. Really. I feel great.”

“Walk me through the first period, then. Tell me everything you remember.”

The words tumbled out of me from I-have-no-idea-where. They were there, though, and they were right, and that has to mean something.

“What’s our record against Colorado this season?” she’d asked, her tone conversational but her eyes alert.

“Two–one, us.”

Can I rebuild a life on muscle memory and gut instinct?

“Your neurological function appears intact,” she’d said finally. “But Torey,” she’d said. “If anything feels off, you call me. No heroics.”

“I’ll come straight to you.”

She’d studied me, searching for any crack in my armor. I’d held my breath. Be calm. Be normal. My future balanced on the quality of my bullshit.

“Earth to Kicks!”

The memory fades as my surroundings sharpen; Hayes is six inches in front of my face.

“You zoned out there, bud. Dreaming of Philly’s net already?” Hayes claps my shoulder hard enough to rock me.

I force a chuckle. “Yeah, picturing their goalie flopping like a fish when I snipe one top shelf.”

Hayes drops into the seat across from me and Blair. “Let’s be real. My D-zone clears are going to be the ones that go viral. I’m a frickin’ slingshot back there.”

Blair snorts. “Oh yeah, you’re a real catapult, Ems, eh? Last game, a puck you shot landed in some kid’s popcorn. You aiming for the snack bar now?”

“And here I thought you loved my wild sauce. Torey, back me up!”

I grin. “If we’re counting popcorn assists, you’re leading the league.”

Hayes barks out a laugh. “All right, all right, I’ll dial it down, but only ‘cause I don’t want to steal your thunder, Kicks. You’ve been tearing up the ice lately. What’s your secret? You sneaking extra reps?”

I shrug, glancing at Blair. His eyes flick to mine, quick and warm.

Hayes nods, leaning forward, elbows on knees. “Ohh, uh-huh. Special workouts, eh?” His smile is full-on, full-watt, full shit-eating.

Blair kicks at his ankle. Hayes laughs. They’re both loose, both happy, best friends hassling each other.

Excitement edges past my fear. I’ll be back on the ice where I belong, with Blair, the man I …

Love. The man I am, at the least, falling in love with, if not already in love with.

Was it like this the first time I fell for him? This all-consuming, this obliterating, this redefining?

“Hey, what about your sick moves when we were in Calgary?” Hayes reaches across Blair and smacks my arm. “Kicks, you were on fire. Gonna bring that this time, too?”

Calgary? What the fuck did I do in Calgary? I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about, but I pretend I do, tell him I’m absolutely going to wreck Philly like I did to Calgary, and Hayes and Blair seem happy about that.

Shit, every second is a tightrope walk between belonging and exposure. I’ve got to keep it together. I can’t let them see the cracks.

I’ll piece together the fragments of this past year and I’ll grind and fight for every moment, every smile, every touch. Losing Blair, losing hockey, losing everything I’ve apparently fought so hard to gain is unthinkable.

I can do this, one shift at a time, one play at a time.

Can’t I?

The door swings open and a flight attendant enters. “Gentlemen,” she says, “we’re ready to begin boarding.”

The usual boarding chaos flows around me, shouted jokes and bleeding music and duffel bags slammed into overhead compartments.

It’s the rhythm of travel, the backbeat to the life I’m trying to inhabit.

I wade through it, searching for my seat, which is pointless; my attention snaps back to Blair like he’s got me tethered.

Which, let’s be honest, he does.