Page 222 of The Fall

Blair skates by Zolotarev with a warning at the TV timeout. “Keep it up, see what fucking happens.”

Zolotarev’s mouth quirks.

He’s across from me on my next face-off, hissing, “Everything he touches turns to shit. His team. His brother. You’re next.”

The puck drops, and I lose the draw.

Every time I’m on the ice, he scratches at all my old wounds. Each whisper drives me further from the game and deeper into my red haze of rage. I want to slam my fist into his smirking face, but that’s exactly what he wants, for me to break, for Blair to break.

And Blair is a hurricane held barely in check. Hayes keeps trying to bring him down during line changes, but Blair’s past listening to reason.

The clock ticks down, tighter, tighter. Every pass is loaded, every face-off a test of nerves. Zolotarev’s shadow never leaves me for long, circling, waiting for his moment.

Blair scores five minutes into the third period, putting us up 2-1. The crowd erupts, and Blair skates past the Washington bench, eyeball-fucking Zolotarev.

Then it happens, with eight minutes left in the third. The game hits a fever pitch, bodies colliding, tempers stretched thin.A scramble in our zone sends the puck squirting loose along the boards near our bench, and I go for it.

Blair is ahead of me on the ice. Hayes yells a warning behind us—my name? Blair’s?—but it’s lost in the thunder of the crowd and the sharp crash of sticks.

Zolotarev closes in fast, shoulder low, eyes locked, and?—

Impact.

A freight train hits me, my vision whiting out as 200 pounds of violence smashes me against the glass.

The crack of my skull against the boards echoes through my teeth, and for one terrible second I’m back in Vancouver with that same explosion of white-hot agony and the taste of copper flooding my mouth. My legs buckle. The crowd’s roar warps into underwater sound as my knees hit ice. Everything tilts sideways as I crumple.

I know this feeling, know what comes next. The slow slide into nothing, the way the world gets smaller and darker until there’s only the cold kiss of ice against my cheek. The darkness is opening, and I’m falling, crashing, losing everything I’ve built.

No, not again, not again?—

Whistles shriek. Bodies converge. Through the ringing in my ears come the sounds of scraping skates, shouts, the crowd baying. I push to my knees, fighting blackout and nausea. Blood drips onto the ice. Hands grip my jersey, helping me up. Hollow is on one side of me, Hawks on the other. Then?—

Chaos.

Blair’s gloves hit the ice, two sharp cracks that cut through everything. His helmet follows, thrown away as he launches himself at Zolotarev.

“Calle, no—” A voice shouts, maybe Hayes’s, but Blair is beyond hearing. He grabs Zolotarev’s jersey with both hands, fabric bunching in his fists as he hauls him close.

There’s murder in Blair’s eyes, cold fury I’ve only glimpsed before, now unleashed.

Zolotarev tries to get his own gloves off, but Blair doesn’t give him the chance. He drives his knee into Zolotarev’s gut, doubling him over, then brings his fist up into his face. The crowd surges to its feet, their roar shaking the rafters.

I know hockey fights. This isn’t one. I try to stand, but the world spins. Hawks keeps his arm around me, steadying me as Blair systematically destroys the man who hurt me.

His next punch lands square on Zolotarev’s jaw, snapping his head back with a wet crack that carries over the crowd noise. Blair ducks under Zolotarev’s haymaker and comes back swinging. Left to the ribs, right to the solar plexus, left again to the same spot on the jaw. Zolotarev’s mouthguard flies out in a spray of blood.

The fight is brutal and one-sided. Blair unleashes everything, each of his punches landing with the fury of a man who’s been pushed past his breaking point.

Zolotarev tries to throw Blair down, but Blair’s balance is perfect, his center of gravity low and controlled. The linesmen circle, waiting for an opening. Blair doesn’t give them one.

Finally, Zolotarev’s knees buckle. Blair doesn’t let him fall, hauling him back upright and keeping him in range for more punishment.

“Christ,” Hawks breathes. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

Again. Again. Blood sprays across the ice, and the linesmen finally separate them. “That’s enough!” The referee grabs Blair’s jersey. “Enough, Callahan!”

Blair shakes him off. His jersey is torn, his knuckles are split and bleeding, and his chest is heaving. As they escort him toward the penalty box, he turns, and our eyes lock across the ice. He points to me.For you. All of this is for you.