Page 43 of The Fall

Twenty-Three

The rink is empty, nothing but ice and silence and the sharp scrape of my blades. It’s early, still too deep in morning for the world outside to stir, but I like it like this. The ice is mine at this hour. No whistles. No shouting. No traffic on the boards or pucks slapping against the glass.

I glide once, twice. The ice catches, then gives.

This started as a way to scrub myself out of my own skin. My self-pity has festered for far too long, and out here, alone, there’s no space for that. There’s only edge, repetition, sweat. There’s nobody to fuck up in front of, nobody to disappoint.

Eyes forward. I lean into muscle memory, into the work. Back to basics, and focus on the little details. Pivot. My edges bite deeper, faster, harder. I push against the burn, lean into the outside edges.

I’ve been running these lonely drills every morning, untangling the mess that’s packed deep into my psyche. The ice holds my confessions, each cut a conversation between me and what I used to be. My breath clouds in front of my face. I’m a glide ahead of failure.

My blades speak for me. Left crossover: I ask Blair what he needed from Cody. Right crossover: I tell him I’m trying to be that for him now. Straightaway: anger rolls in, hot and heavy and hard. Corner: shame seeps in, and I begin again.

I drop my hips and drive. If you were here, Cody, I’d tell you your brother still leads from the front and carries more than any captain should. I’m here to love him as he loves: head-on, no shortcuts.

The ice sprays beneath my edges as I cut harder into the turn. Each morning I come here and measure myself against a ghost—against the brother Blair lost, against the player I was before. My lungs burn but I keep pushing.

The rink lights hum overhead, casting long shadows that chase me.

In two hours this place will fill with voices and bodies and the business of being a team.

But right now it’s mine—mine and Cody’s ghost and all the vows I’m making.

I push off again, harder this time, fighting the hesitation that’s become my shadow.

The scrape of metal on ice echoes through the empty arena. Forward. Twist. Back.

I have a long way to go, but at least I’m going.

I drop into a sprint, short, aggressive strides that cut into the ice as I fly across the length of the rink.

It should be natural, I should float, but it isn’t, not yet.

I swing wide, pivot hard, grit scraping my molars.

Clean it up, Torey. I’ve got more to give.

Harder. Faster. Keep moving. Push through. Power off the heels.

This is how I crawl back, one inch at a time.

Something itches at the base of my neck. Pivot, push forward, keep?—

There’s no point pretending; I feel him like a yanked knot in my gut.

I look up, and there he is, leaning on the boards, elbows planted on the plastic, his eyes pinned on me. Is he waiting for me to show him greatness or waiting for my collapse?

I keep my head down, focusing on the scrape of my blades, the quiet thud of the puck against my stick, but my mind’s a mess.

What does he see right now? Does he see Cody’s shadow in my stride?

Or does he see the gaps where Cody would’ve been smoother, faster, more natural with the puck?

Every drill I run feels like a comparison I’m losing.

My next crossover catches wrong and I have to correct, a tiny stutter that Blair definitely will not miss; he misses nothing.

The puck wobbles on my blade for half a second before I settle it.

These are the moments that kill me—not the big failures but the small ones, the proof that I’m still fighting my own body for control.

Maybe he’s counting my mistakes, cataloging all the ways I’m not enough. Or maybe—and this thought cuts deeper—maybe he’s watching me try so hard it hurts and thinking about how Cody never had to try at all.

The ice bites back as I pivot hard, sending up a spray that catches the light.

I need to do it right. No, I need to do more than that. I’ve shown him a little bit of right, and, fair enough, I’ve shown him horrifically wrong, too. I fucking need him to see more than mistakes. If there’s a chance to prove it, now’s the moment.

He’s waiting for either brilliance or failure, and I don’t know which one I’m about to give him. I flick the puck to center, coil my body in, then explode.

I try to nail it—the crossovers, the quick cuts, the faster transitions. The grip of the ice holds as I cut the sharpest turn I’ve got left inside me.

I cut the crease, pull tight, and tip the puck off my blade. It works, and I work. The puck is in the back of the net.

I turn, breathe in the cold, bite back the burn of lactic acid, and glide toward the bench.

Let him watch. Let him decide.

It’s decision day, roster day, and the locker room is charged.

I look around the room, at the guys, at the gear, at the life surrounding me.

My hand smooths over the logo on my practice jersey, tracing the outline.

I want this to be my home. So if that means relearning how to swim, how to breathe, or how to play hockey again, then I will.

I’m jumping. I’m leaping. One good practice, then one good shift, one at a time.

I’m pulling off my gear, my hands still unsteady, when Coach’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Kendrick! GM wants to see you.”

That’s it. The air goes out of my lungs. This is the walk.

My legs move on their own, carrying me down the hall while my mind races. The carpet muffles my footsteps, makes everything feel like I’m walking through a dream that’s about to end badly.

This could be the last time I see this place.

My jersey sticks to my back, still damp with sweat. Was that enough? Did I give enough?

I think about Blair watching me from the boards this morning. I replay that final look, his unreadable stare. Was it dismissal? Pity? Did he walk into Coach’s office and tell them I wasn’t ready? Did he tell them I’d never be what they need?

My feet keep moving even though every instinct screams at me to turn around, to run, and the GM’s door looms in front of me at the end of the hall.

I knock and enter. He nods at the chair. I sit. I can smell the ice still on me, that sharp, clean scent that usually means home but right now might mean goodbye.

The leather chair creaks under me as I shift forward, hands between my knees. The GM’s studying a paper on his desk—a roster sheet, maybe, or my stats. He doesn’t look up. I count my breaths to keep them even. One. Two. Three.

The GM finally looks up. His expression gives nothing away. “Kendrick,” he says, and my name sounds final in his mouth. “You made it.”

I blink. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. The sweat cooling on my back suddenly feels like ice water.

Did he just?—

The GM’s still watching me, waiting for something, but my brain won’t connect the words to meaning. Made it. I made it?

“You’re on the team,” he says, this time slower.

“But let’s not kid ourselves. It’s by the skin of your teeth.

” He leans back and taps his pen on the edge of his desk.

“You’re here because we think there’s still a spark in you worth salvaging, but the leash is short. Shorter than you can probably imagine.”

“I know what this means,” I say instead, my voice steadier than I expected. “And what it took to give me this shot.”

“Coach says he saw enough life out there.” He leans back, folding his arms. “So that’s what we’re banking on. Don’t make us rethink this. There are twenty guys who would kill for your spot.”

“I won’t waste it.”

The GM watches me for another beat, then nods once, sharp.

“Good. Because here’s what happens next.

” He pulls a folder from his desk drawer, slides it across the mahogany surface.

“You’re starting fourth line. Limited minutes.

Special teams are off the table until you prove you can handle five-on-five without falling apart. ”

The folder sits between us. My contract, probably. The terms of my survival.

“You’ve been putting in the work. Early mornings. Extra drills.” His eyes narrow. “That bought you exactly one thing—this conversation instead of a plane ticket home. You get thirty days to show us you belong. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

He pushes the folder closer. “Sign it, and get back to your team.”

I grab the pen, scrawl my name across the bottom line without reading a single word. My first NHL contract felt like a lottery ticket. This one feels like a lifeline.

Outside of his office, it takes a second before it really hits me: I made it. I made the fucking team. I’m here, I’m still here, and there’s more left of me to give.

I will give them everything.

I am home.

Back in the room, it’s a party. The air is buzzing, a messy kind of energy that gets in your blood. I missed this so much.

Hayes strides across the room in three easy steps when I walk in. “Kicks!” His voice booms, and he holds out his hand for a high-five, then pulls me into a brotherly, back-slapping hug. “You did it! Welcome to the Mutineers!”

He’s sweat-soaked and still in his base layers even though most of the other guys have changed and showered. He’s been waiting, I realize, for me. To welcome me to the team.

For Hayes, loyalty is never complicated.

I smile. “It feels good, man. It feels so good.” And it does.

“We’re gonna rock this season.” He slings his arm around my shoulders and drags me into the room, folding me into the ebb and flow. “You’re one of us now. Let’s make it count, eh?”

Our locker room hums with game-day energy. Guys are taping sticks, adjusting gear, and running through their rituals. Hayes is holding court, demonstrating some save he made in practice.

But Blair isn’t part of any of it.

He’s at his stall, fully dressed except for his skates, staring at his hands where they rest on his knees.