Page 54 of The Fall

Blair’s voice echoes in my head: Again.

Black rubber kisses my blade as my muscles coil and release. Everything hinges on this split-second: one shot, one chance to rewrite the ending. I shoot?—

And the puck rockets off my stick exactly as it should, rising in a perfect arc through the air. The sound tells me everything: that satisfying ping as it hits the perfect spot where crossbar meets post before dropping in behind the goalie who never had a chance.

My arms rise. Joy floods my system, drowning out everything. The roar of the crowd rushes in a heartbeat later, and I’m spinning on my skates, searching for blue and white, for ocean eyes, for him.

Blair crashes into me before I finish the turn. He hauls me against the boards, and the impact rattles through me, but I don’t care. Hayes slams into us from behind, then Hollow, then the rest of the line, a tangle of helmets and shoulders and adrenaline.

“That’s it!” Blair’s yelling in my ear.

The crowd’s on their feet, the building shaking.

I catch glimpses through the pile—the goalie’s head hanging, their defenseman slamming his stick against the post, our bench erupting.

Their center looks pissed, jaw working behind his mouth guard.

Good. Let them chase us now. Let them try to match what Blair and I are together.

When we finally break apart to skate back to center ice, Blair’s still beside me. His chest heaves beneath his jersey, sweat darkening the fabric at his collar. He bumps my shoulder with his. “You feeling it now?” His voice cuts through the din, only for me.

I nod.

We do serious damage together. In the first period, we’re up by one. In the second, we execute our visualization play to the letter and go up by three. In the third, we suffocate them from center ice down.

Their coach calls time-out with eight minutes left, but it’s too late. We’ve found our rhythm, Blair and I, and they can’t break it. The ice belongs to us tonight.

The final minutes tick down. Their frustration shows in late hits and chippy plays after the whistle. Hayes takes a high-stick, and Divot gets ready to dish out justice. My jaw clenches, and I breathe fire?—

“Save it,” Blair says against my ear. “We already won.” His breath ghosts across my neck.

I don’t want off the ice tonight. I only want more time beside Blair.

Final score: 4–1, Tampa.

That night, we land at some rooftop spot Hawks swears is low-key; it isn’t.

The city wraps itself around us in neon, and Tampa stretches out below us, a carpet of lights and shadows unfurling toward the dark water of the bay.

Music thumps through the floor into my boots.

Players crowd the rail, drinks in hand, riding the high of our win.

I grip my water and hang back. Blair is here, his profile sharp against the cityscape, the breeze ruffling his hair. I take another sip. Count my breaths. The gap between us burns hotter than the Florida night air.

I drift between conversations, missing entire minutes because Blair absent-mindedly rolls his shoulders.

His voice carries over Simmer’s play-by-play of our third period shutdown.

I catch words, phrases, Blair’s low laugh.

I need to focus on something else—the city lights, the conversations around us, anything but him—but my traitor eyes keep tracking back to the curve of his throat.

The crowd shifts, and suddenly he’s beside me, his shoulder inches from mine as he sets his drink on the high-top table. Bubbles rise in his glass, but that clear liquid on the rocks isn’t alcohol. It’s sparkling water, the same as me.

“Good game tonight,” he says. He braces one arm on the edge of the table, his sleeve pushed up.

The crest of scar tissue on his right wrist, barely visible, catches the light every time he lifts his glass.

He shifts, angling closer. “You scanned the third-unit breakout mid-shift,” he says.

“The way you read their defense. You knew exactly where that pass was going.”

Hockey talk is safe territory. “Their D-man telegraphs passes when he’s under pressure.”

“You’ve got solid eyes. Most guys need ten years to read the ice that far ahead.”

I stare at the bubbles rising in my water. “Thanks.” I risk a glance at him. The city lights catch in his eyes, turning them silver and drenched.

Coming from him, from someone who dissects every play down to its atoms, the attention means everything.

I take another sip of water to have something to do with my hands.

Our elbows are inches apart on the table.

The city sparkles beyond the rail, but I’m frozen, cataloging details: the way his knuckles flex against the tabletop, how his eyes never leave my face.

“You play differently now,” he says.

“Different good or different bad?”

He takes another sip. “Different interesting.”

“I didn’t think anyone noticed.” The music thrums around us, but we exist in our own pocket of quiet.

His eyes drift over my face. “I’m not anyone .”

Our road trip bleeds into rhythm. Planes, hotels, rinks, and routines repeat.

When our flight to Chicago is delayed, half the guys pass out in the lounge.

Blair disappears and returns with two take-out cups of coffee, then drops into the seat beside me.

He hands me one, pulls out his tablet, and brings up Chicago’s latest game.

The coffee is exactly how I take it: cream, no sugar.

Did he see me make it in the cafeteria or before team meetings?

We don’t talk much; Blair’s never been one for small talk. But still, it feels like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

In another life, we did.

My routines orbit his. He ties his right skate first; I catch myself doing the same. He takes a sip of water between our third and fourth drills during practice, and I match him. In the room, he offers tape to me without asking. Our fingers brush as I take it.

Gone are the shadows from earlier this season.

The Blair I remember lives again. He’s not reaching for what he used to be anymore; he’s playing like the ice belongs to him again.

And it’s exhilarating, being alive and side by side with him again.

Momentum doesn’t announce itself when it arrives; you notice it after, like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

His resurrection happens in real time, solidifying during morning skate in Chicago. Blair’s moving sharper, cleaner, like someone turned up the contrast on every edge and angle.

I watch him instead of running my own drills. Coach barks something about focus, but his words slide past me. Blair executes a tight turn at the blue line, snow spraying from his edges, and my chest goes tight.

“Kendrick, you planning to join us today?” Coach’s voice cuts through.

I snap back into motion, but Blair’s still there, always there, in my peripheral vision, a fixed point in the chaos of sticks and skates. A flush of heat crawls up my neck at Coach’s reprimand, but I swallow it down and skate to my mark for the drill.

Blair meets my gaze. The entire drill, the entire world, condenses to this patch of ice between us. He’s the other half of my thought.

I shift and Blair nods, enough to say I’ve got you.

The puck drops and I sweep it back in one motion.

Blair’s already moving; we’re synced, two bodies operating on the same frequency.

When he cuts across the neutral zone, I’m already tracking the lane that’ll open up three seconds from now.

When I push toward the boards, he reads the play and covers high.

We cycle through puck-possession. The puck dances across the ice between us, hardly touching either of our blades.

We’ve built a whole language between our blades; I don’t have to translate him anymore.

He speaks in action, and I answer in kind.

He blows through two defenders, then flings the puck across the crease. I tap it once, and it’s in the back of the net.

We glide along the boards for recovery and I bump Blair’s hip as we coast. “You’re closing faster out of the hash.”

“Yeah, I’m trying something,” he says.

“It’s working.”

He grins. “Good.” He watches me stretch, and his eyes flick down to my knee. “That one still giving you hell?”

An enthusiastic forecheck in Detroit twanged my knee, and it’s given me a lingering ache for a few weeks. “It likes to sulk around the third rep.”

“You’re getting old, Kicks.”

I shoot a loose puck at his skates. “You’re four years older than I am.”

“But who’s the one that needs the walker, eh?” His eyes are dancing.

“Fuck you,” I say. “I’ll race you to the blue line tomorrow. Loser buys coffee for a week.”

“Deal.” He taps his stick against my shin guard. “But I’m not taking it easy on you because you’re decrepit.”

It’s all a dream, a beautiful dream. I remember skating beside him last night, last week, a year ago, a year from now.

I remember his lips on mine, both never and forever.

Past and future collapse into this single point where Blair exists, where we exist together, where every version of us that ever was or could be converges into now.

I breathe through it, through this ache that tastes like hope and fear.

To him, we traded jabs about my knee. To me, the universe smiled and showed me its center.

He is the center.

On Thursday, I’m back in the gym, flat on my back on the bench with the bar racked above me.

Blair grips the squat bar next to me, his shoulders huge and steady. He’s focused completely on his form, and his face gives nothing away except concentration. I drag my eyes back to the ceiling.

Hayes is at the leg press, but judging by his chatter and lack of sweat, this is not his first priority today. “That bar insult your game, Calle?” He’s been throwing shit-talk around the room for half an hour, and now Blair is his target.