Page 180 of The Fall

Neither of us were picked for Canada’s team. Not a surprise on my part, but the slight to Blair stings when I think about it too much.

“Feels unreal,” I say. “Didn’t the season just start?” The season has both crawled and sprinted. September is yesterday and forever ago.

“Two weeks is a long time,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. He shoots me another glance, longer this time. “The guys are scattering. Hayes talked about Colorado. Hollow booked Cabo.” Another pause. “What about you? Got plans?”

Plans. The word sounds fancy, as if I would own a catalog of them. My plans involve soaking up every possible second near him. How do I say that without sounding completely pathetic?

“Nothing concrete,” I manage. “I’ll probably stick around here. Extra ice time, maybe?”

Lie. All I want is to dissolve into him, map the freckles on his shoulders, listen to the ocean-rumble of his breathing while he sleeps.

I hesitate, then add the truth. “Honestly? Spending time with you is all I really want.” Every hour I spend with him, I want doubled, tripled, carried over into the next morning.

His shoulders seem to drop an inch, tension easing slightly from his grip on the wheel. “Yeah?”

“What about you?” I ask.

“Hayes wants to drag the boys to Miami for a few nights, but I need quiet.”

Quiet with me; say it, please.

“I was thinking…” His voice trails off, then comes back stronger. “Would you want to get away with me?”

“Only us?”

“Yeah.” He’s staring at a red light that will not change. “We could go somewhere. Together.”

“Yeah?” I try to sound cool. “Where were you thinking?” Anywhere. A deserted island, a crowded city, the dark side of the moon, doesn’t matter as long as he’s there.

“Somewhere warm. Sun. Sand. The ocean.”

That sounds perfect, absolutely fucking perfect. So why does he sound as if he’s suggesting we get couples’ root canals? “Tell me when and where, and I’m yours.”

He nods, but the muscle in his jaw jumps again. Whatever’s eating at him, the idea of a vacation isn’t fixing it. The radio burbles into an insurance ad, and he drums three tight notes on the wheel. The rest of the drive is a stretched-out string of silence.

By the time we curve down his street and into his drive, the horizon is boiled copper with a rinsed blue sky. He glides into his driveway and puts the truck in Park but keeps both hands on the wheel.

“Blair?”

He shakes himself out of the middle distance he’s fallen into. “Inside.” He’s unreadable, storms collecting behind those blue eyes.

We walk in, shedding shoes and gym bags at the door. He heads for the kitchen, pulling off his practice hoodie.

I follow.

The kitchen’s lived-in now after weeks of me: my sneakers are kicked off under the island, our water bottles are caught in a drift on the counter. His place is golder than usual with the winter sunset pouring through the glass sliders.

I grab a tomato from the fruit bowl on the kitchen counter and toss it to him, then start rifling through the fridge for sandwich guts. “Sandwiches for lunch?”

“Sure.”

When I turn back, he’s rolling that tomato over and over in his palm. He’s not here; he’s orbiting something big and dangerous in his head.

“Avocado or plain?”

“Whatever you want.”

I lean on the island, my gaze on him as he takes out a cutting board, grabs a knife, and starts slicing. He’s building a wall out of perfectly sliced tomatoes.