Page 152 of The Fall

“The kitchen was closing,” I say.

“Get tired of the wild party?” Blair asks.

“Place was mega-boring without us. We livened it up. How was the view?”

“Great,” I say. “Clear night.”

Hayes takes another long pull from his boot, the pink slush making obscene sucking sounds through the straw. His gaze ping-pongs between us like he’s watching a tennis match where the ball is made of secrets.

“We-ll,” he draws out the word. “I’m heading up. Skate tomorrow.” He pushes himself up from the booth. The cowboy hat tilts at a precarious angle. He grabs his boot, takes one more obnoxious slurp, then points the straw at us. “You two enjoy your... cake.”

Hayes shoots me one more look before heading to the elevators. When he’s gone, Blair stirs his fork through the chocolate sauce left behind on the plate.

The bar feels smaller suddenly, the dim lighting more intimate. The bartender has disappeared into the back, and the business couple at the bar are on their phones. We might as well be alone.

When I look back at Blair, his eyes hold none of their usual storms. He’s staring at me. “I don’t talk about Cody. Not with anyone. But with you...” He trails off.

I want to touch him, to kiss him, to pull him close and breathe him in until we’re one person instead of two. I want to know if his heart races when we’re close like mine does. I want impossible things.

I want to ask him a thousand questions. I want to ask if he dreams about a life he’s never lived. If he ever wakes up reaching for someone who isn’t there. If he’s ever felt like he’s missing something vital but can’t name what it is.

I drop my gaze to the table, to the remnants of chocolate smeared across the white plate.

Every breath takes effort. Every second stretches.

“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move. “We have a big day tomorrow.” He stands, and I know our night is ending. Themagic dissolving, reality rushing back in. “Night, Kicks. See you in the morning.”

My hands ache from not reaching for him. “Night.”

The word is a whisper past my lips. He’s already turning away, and I’m memorizing the line of his shoulders, the way his shirt pulls across his back. The bartender reappears from wherever he’s been hiding, rattling bottles behind the bar. Ice clinks into a glass somewhere.

Blair pauses three steps from the table. His hand rises to the back of his neck, fingers digging into muscle like he’s working out a knot. “Actually—” He turns back, and the bar lights catch in his eyes, turning them translucent. “Thank you. For listening.” His hand drops. “For being you.”

Heat rushes up my neck. I manage a twitch of my lips that might be a smile, might be nothing at all.

“Anytime,” I tell him, because it’s true. Because I’d give him anything he asked for and more besides. I’d listen to him talk about anything—his childhood, his fears, his dreams—for hours. Days. All I want is to bring him peace, even if what he needs isn’t me. Even if I unravel. Even if I break.

His throat works around a swallow. For one wild second, I think he might come back to the table. Might slide back into the booth and tell me whatever’s written in the tension of his jaw, the set of his mouth.

Instead, he nods and walks away.

Morning comes too early, with my phone alarm chirping from the nightstand. I swipe it silent and roll onto my back. Last night filters back in fragments: the game, the rooftop, Blair’sconfession about bringing me to Tampa, about what playing with me means to him.

There was also a text from my dad, one I missed until I was already in bed.

Happy New Year, kiddo. Saw your game.

I’d clenched up until I read his next message.

You’re awesome.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this version of my father with the one who used to dissect every shift, every pass, every decision I made on the ice.

My body protests when I sit up. Four-point night or not, hockey leaves its marks. My legs are lead. But underneath the exhaustion, the memory of Blair’s voice in the dark and the way he looked at me in that empty bar sings.

Thank you. For being you.

I push my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids. This thing between us—whatever it is—feels like standing on thin ice and hearing it crack beneath my skates. One wrong step and I go under.