Page 40 of The Fall

Twenty-Two

Tape tears between my teeth, and I wind it around my stick blade in the same pattern I’ve used since juniors—three wraps at the heel, diagonal across, back to the toe.

Someone’s playlist thumps through a portable speaker.

I’m half-dressed, compression shorts and nothing else, when Blair walks past my stall without stopping.

His eyes slide over me like water over stone.

My stomach clenches hard enough that I have to breathe through it, count to four, let the air out slowly.

He pulls his practice jersey over his head, and I catch the flash of pale skin at his hip. I know there’s a scar there, two inches long, from a skateboard accident when he was twelve. Except I don’t know that.

Hayes is on my left, joking with Axel and Hawks as they strap on their shin pads.

My thoughts keep bouncing around my head like a rubber ball in a small room.

Pittsburgh. Hayes. Erin. The three words ricochet against each other.

I thread my laces through the eyelets. My brain won’t let this go.

We’re playing in Pittsburgh next. Pittsburgh.

Medical hub. Cancer treatment. I read on Google about Pittsburgh’s cancer center when my mind wouldn’t shut up about Pittsburgh, Hayes, Erin, Pittsburgh, Hayes, Erin, Pittsburgh, Hayes.

The names loop on repeat, a frantic, meaningless rhythm.

I look over at Hayes, at the wide smile he’s giving Axel. He’s pulling in laughter from everyone around him as if nothing in his world has ever cracked.

It’s Pittsburgh, it’s a cancer center. Erin is in remission, according to Hayes’s Instagram, and has been for a while, but…

Should I ask?

A part of me screams no . It’s not my lane. It’s his life, his private history that he papers over with loud jokes. But remaining quiet is a betrayal, and I can’t explain why.

Pittsburgh. Hayes. Erin. I shouldn’t. But?—

Fuck fuck fuck.

I have to say something. If I’m right or if I’m wrong, it’s worth it to ask.

Hayes and Hawks are toe-to-toe as Hawks tries to balance the top of his stick on his open palm while Hayes stares at him from half an inch away from his face.

“Hey, Ems.”

Hayes tosses a look over his shoulder and completely skips over me. He can’t imagine that I would be the one who called his name.

I take a breath and try again. “Ems.”

This time, his head tips sideways. “Yeah, Kicks?”

Jesus. Get it out. “So, Pittsburgh, yeah? Our next game is up there.”

Hayes’s eyebrows jump. “Yeah…” He drags the word long.

I nod like some jerky bobblehead. Say it. Be normal. But I hesitate. Hawks has given up on the stick-balancing and dropped onto the bench, watching us.

“I was reading about the city.” Lie. I wasn’t only reading about the city—I was searching, digging, trying to understand why I couldn’t stop thinking Pittsburgh Hayes Erin Pittsburgh Hayes Erin— fuck. “They have world-class medical care there, yeah?”

Hayes goes still. “Yeah?” His voice stays level, but an undercurrent has appeared. A warning maybe.

I should stop, crack some joke about the Pittsburgh nightlife or their terrible pizza. But I can’t, I can’t .

“You know about the cancer center they’ve got, right? It’s crazy cutting-edge.” I’m rambling already. “They have these crazy advanced treatments, personalized immunotherapies, some really cool stuff.” Someone’s talking too much: me.

“What are you talking about?” There’s a note in his voice that tells me stop, maybe even tells me to walk it back, bury everything I’m saying, and do it quick.

“The cancer center. It’s—Pittsburgh is known for it.”

He turns fully to me, not the same guy he was ten seconds ago.

“Have you guys ever thought about checking it out?” The cliff’s edge is right there, and I’m soaring off it anyway. “For Erin.” Stop. Stop. More words aren’t helping. “I mean—I thought—if you...” I swallow hard. “With the team going to Pittsburgh—that immunotherapy stuff’s supposed to be…”

I can’t shut the fuck up to save my life.

Hayes looks at me like he wants to crack my face open, and for half a second, I brace for the impact. Everyone’s eyes are on us now. The normal practice chatter has died, replaced by an uncomfortable silence of people pretending not to listen while catching every word.

“I thought—if you ever wanted to get another opinion or?—”

“You didn’t think.” Hayes cuts me off. There’s something hard in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. “You googled some shit.” He stands, his skates half-laced. The guys around us take a sudden interest in their own gear, heads down, hands busy with tape and pads and anything that isn’t this.

He’s right. That’s all I did. I took a universe of their private pain and ran it through a search engine. Heat climbs my neck, my face, a wildfire of shame. I need to say something— I’m sorry, I was out of line, I didn’t mean —but my words are ash on my tongue.

Hayes’s jaw works, muscles flexing. He’s a line of tension, ready to snap. He breathes in, chest expanding, and I brace for the explosion.

But without looking at me again, he turns and walks away from my stall, his half-laced skates thudding on the rubber mat. The door to the tunnel swings open under his hand and bangs off the concrete walls, then falls back closed with a sigh.

Every eye in this room is on me now, the pretense of ignoring us dropped.

I drop my head, staring at my own skates. What the fuck. Seriously, what the fuck did I do? Hey, Hayes, I did a quick Google search about your wife’s cancer, let me solve all your problems. Was I thinking I’d be a hero? I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I had no business, no right.

The clock on the wall ticks forward, reminding me that practice starts in fifteen minutes, and I’m not even close to ready. I force myself to finish lacing my skates, each yank tight enough to cut off circulation. “Fucking idiot,” I mutter.

The usual chaos of sticks clattering and guys yelling is gone. Someone across the room coughs. One by one, guys start filing out toward the ice, their skates clicking on the floor. No one even looks in my direction.

I didn’t cross a line; I nuked it from orbit.

Somewhere behind me, the smoothie bar coughs to life and dies again, a sickly whine, and then Simmer’s laugh peels across the cafeteria. I sit alone with a gray bowl of cold oatmeal. My spoon scrapes a track and keeps going, small circles looping through the same rut.

The TV in the corner plays highlights on mute.

Hollow is laughing his ass off. Hawks is probably with him, the two of them carrying on like it’s any other day.

For them, it is. Pre-season buzz is in their veins, and they know they’ll be skating come regular season.

The air is bright with other people’s momentum.

My days are winding down. The end of preseason will be the end of me.

Blair sits across the room. I pretend I’m watching the TV and fail. Every time he shifts, heat rolls through me and I stay very still so it doesn’t show on my face.

Two endings stalk me: one with my taped name scraped off my stall, and one with Blair always on the opposite side of the room we share.

The Blair in my mind moves through rooms I can’t return to—lanai lights, a low laugh at my ear, his hands on my hips.

The man in this room sees me only long enough to ignore me.

What do I do when both roads end in a loss? What do I hold when you take away the only jersey I’ve ever wanted and the only man I’ve ever loved, even when the knowing came out of nowhere?

The question hangs unanswered in the space behind my eyes. My spoon scrapes against the bottom of my bowl. I lift my head.

Blair’s mouth curves up at something Divot says; it doesn’t reach his eyes. That isn’t the smile I know, the one that pulled me in with its tide.

He shifts, his gaze sweeping vaguely in my direction before moving on. I am part of the furniture. I should get up, throw this away, and go skate until my legs burn and my head is empty. But I am stuck to this chair, watching a man who doesn’t see me.

I can’t stop loving him, even this fractured version of him that shares a face with the man I remember.

The cafeteria door rips open, and there’s a sharp shift in the air like someone slammed the table with their stick. I look up?—

It’s Hayes, and he’s cutting across the room like someone you do not want to fuck with. Glances slide to me and peel away. The noise in the room has cratered.

Hayes closes the distance between him and me with nobody slowing him down. I sit back, my heart hammering, countless fucked-up scenarios running through my head before he drops into the chair across from me.

Shit. “Ems—” My voice cracks.

“I—” He starts, then stops. There’s no swagger in him. He shakes his head and sucks in a sharp breath. “Listen.”

There’s a long pause, and I can’t stand it. Every silent second stretches. My hands are fisted on my thighs under the table. Say it. Get it over with.

“Erin and I stayed an extra day in Pittsburgh.”

So that’s where he went after the game. He didn’t fly back with us on the team plane.

“We went to the cancer center, the one you brought up. Like you said, it’s good to know, right? And Erin’s… Erin’s cancer’s back.”

The sound in the cafeteria cuts out, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Hayes’s gaze is locked on mine. The fear in his eyes is bottomless.

“We didn’t know, but it had spread. It got into—fuck.” His eyes slam closed. His hands flatten on the table, knuckles white. He draws a shuddering breath and opens his eyes again.

There’s nothing in me but static.