Page 6 of The Fall

She continues with questions about the team, teammates, set plays, line combinations, penalty kill units, and I answer them all, easy peasy. For the first time since she said hello, Dr. Lin smiles.

“Okay, last one: who is the captain of the team?”

“Blair Callahan.”

“That’s right. And does Blair do a good job?”

I blink. “Of course.”

“He does. In fact, I’d say he does such a good job that, if, for some reason, someone didn’t feel comfortable speaking to a member of staff, then taking their situation to Blair would be a very smart choice.

I’d trust him to make the right call in that situation.

” Dr. Lin looks at me, really looks at me.

Oh. Now I get it. I swallow. Nod.

There is no fucking way I am telling Blair that I can’t remember anything about him, or us, or how we came to be him-and-me. That I can’t remember our first kiss or the first time we made love or even meeting him.

“Good,” she says at last. “You passed the neurological exam with flying colors. That’s a good sign.”

How is that possible when there’s a yearlong black hole in my memory? My brain might be broken, but apparently not that badly. Right? Maybe I’m not losing it. Maybe I can get through this, and maybe everything will be okay.

But what if it’s not? What if I forget all of this again?

“Your test results are consistent with someone who’s taken a hit but isn’t showing signs of serious cognitive impairment.” Dr. Lin taps something on her tablet. “Which doesn’t mean you aren’t experiencing symptoms you’re not telling me about.”

I want to confess everything, spill my guts right here on this exam table. I want someone to help me make sense of this nightmare. But… I can’t.

“I want to see you again tomorrow. And if anything changes?—”

“I’ll call,” I cut in, not wanting to hear the rest, not wanting to face the possibility that whatever’s happening to me could take this life away permanently.

She sighs. “Things have been going well for you, Torey. Really well. This has been the best hockey you’ve ever played. You’ve been very happy here.”

I’m so fucking terrified, but I’m going to keep this. I want this life, because if it’s even a tenth as amazing as this tiny, fractional sliver I’ve seen, then this is everything, absolutely everything, I have ever wanted.

What is it they tell you back in juniors when you’re trying to break into the bigger leagues? Fake it till you make it?

I will. I am not going to lose this life.

“You’re not practicing today. Come back and see me tomorrow morning. We’ll talk more then.”

The rink air is sharp, a cold bite of ozone and shaved ice. I stand at the boards, tucked between the benches where the glass is scarred white.

It’s observer status for me today. Dr. Lin’s “maintenance day” feels like a traffic cone planted over my name, and the air tastes like exile.

On the surface, it’s another morning. Not mine, but one I can fake.

The salty chill of last night’s sweat, old tape, new rubber, the murderously sweet sting of Zamboni exhaust. The slap of pucks, the reek of gear, the freezer-burned salt that seeps into everything, all the scents of a hockey rink and home.

The team crashes through drills, blades hissing, bodies colliding. Practice hums loud and alive. Orders volley from the far end. The chatter, the wild whoops, the barked bursts of laughter chase around the rafters as my teammates run the drill.

Hawks plants his skates at the blue line and drops his weight into a feint.

His shoulders twitch. He’s aiming for the top corner; I know it before he finishes the turn.

All of it—the curve of Hawks’s blade, the vanish-angle of Hollow’s hips as he slaloms right—floods my muscles.

I want to be in the lane, want to chase the rebound, want to be the next echo in their pattern.

I flex my wrists; the play ghosts through my muscles.

Hawks is going to cut in front of the net. Hollow will pick up the tip and run the puck up the ice. He’ll fake a pass, then whip the puck across the rink to the right wing.

It’s a strange knowing. Plays I don’t remember learning flicker through me.

“That’s how you do it, Hollow!” I shout before I can stop myself.

They snap their heads toward me, grins across their faces.

Hawks swings by on a curl, calling out, “Maintenance day, Kicks?”

“Yeah, gotta check the head. Last night, you know.” I say that as if I have any idea what I’m talking about.

Hawks snorts. “Shouldn’t take ‘em long. That’s prime empty real estate up there.”

I laugh, bright and loud and clear. How long has it been since I’ve had linemate banter?

The drill zips by, morphing into a four-on-three. Hayes floats back, nudges the puck off Fischer’s stick, and whoops at his own theft. He wrestles Fischer into the boards, showboating the victory. His self-appointed mission: keep the ice loud and ridiculous. It works.

Blair slots in on the blue, lines up for the next rush. He finds me, his eyes like oceans on an overcast morning. He gives a smile so brief it’s criminal, the right corner of his mouth creasing before it disappears.

He launches, rolling his shoulders through his first strides, every line of his body devouring the ice. He commands more space than he takes.

The contradiction of him fascinates me. Rough edges and smooth confidence. Raw power channeled into controlled speed. He’s hockey distilled into the art of motion.

He slices through the defense, his blue, blue eyes fixed on the puck.

He pulls the puck tight through traffic, never looks up, makes Hayes think he’s about to fire high before dishing low.

He rips a wrist shot that snaps top shelf and then wheels back to smile at me when the net pops. Perfection. He wears it like sweat.

The whistle blows. Water break. Everyone scatters, some bursting into laps to keep loose, others peeling off to stretch or shoot the breeze. Blair skates toward the benches, toward me.

He grabs a bottle off the ledge, tilts a fat spray into his mouth and then hands it to me while he leans in, elbows on the boards until we’re shadow to shadow. I drink, and he watches me the whole time.

The shouts and stick-taps of the team fade. What do they see when they look at us? What does he see when he looks at me?

What do I do? How do I act?

“Doc clear you to stand around?” His voice settles deep inside me, where my worry goes to curl up and rest. For a moment, everything feels right.

I nod, swallow past the dryness in my throat. “For now.”

“How’s the head?”

“Better.” Still fucked beyond belief.

His gaze stays locked on me. He’s got the ocean in his eyes, all those beautiful shades of blue swirled together. I want to look away, hide, and I also want to swan dive right into the center of that storm. Pure longing squeezes my chest.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong.”

I swallow. “I’d tell you.”

Blair unlatches his helmet, pushes it back, and runs a hand through his damp hair. It’s dark, and the ends are curling. A day’s worth of scruff shadows his jaw. He didn’t shave this morning because he wanted to get me to Dr. Lin as fast as possible. It’s a rugged look, made for him.

“You sure you’re okay?” His voice softens. His eyes roam over my face.

“Yeah.” I try to smile, but it feels like a grimace. “I’m good. A little disoriented.”

Coach’s whistle cuts the air. The team breaks up, moving back to the drills, but Blair stays with me. “After this, we’ll get you somewhere quiet. Stretch out, decompress.” He skates backward, his eyes never leaving mine.

Finally—finally—he shifts his focus back to the team, to Coach, to the drills, and releases me from his hold. I exhale, bend forward, tremble.

Forehead pressed to the boards, anesthetized by the cold, I let my thoughts bleed into the rink. This is hockey. This is practice. This is home.

Right?

The world is spinning, spinning and spinning, and I dig my fingers into the cold plastic, trying to hold on. Stay steady, Torey.

Hawks and Hollow pick up again, slicing a circle. Hayes is still chirping. I keep one eye on Blair, a storm on the horizon that can ruin and rebuild the whole world.

Let me remember all of this.

Let me hold on.

“You seeing this shit, Kicks?” Hayes’s laughter bounces off the locker room walls. He’s the team’s class clown, with a grin that pulls everyone in. “Rookie’s got hands, I’ll give him that.”

I force out a laugh. Does it sound as hollow as I feel? I should know all the rookies—their names, their stats, the way they move, shoot, celebrate a goal.

I should know all of those things about myself, too, but I don’t.

“He’s gonna be a problem for the other teams,” I manage.

Hayes seems happy with that, and he shifts his shit-talking across the room, hassling Fischer about his dangles.

My eyes bounce around the locker room, searching for something, anything, to spark a memory. Anything I recognize at all. Lockers, spilled gear, ice-soaked carpet. Balls of used sock tape, rolls of stick tape. Other than the different colors, it could be any team’s locker room in any arena.

Blair stayed to talk to Coach out on the ice, and Hayes and the rest of the guys dragged me to the locker room, seemingly overjoyed to have me with them. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that wanted, and even though these guys are all essentially—to me—strangers, that was impossible to resist.

I’m paying for it now. My head is screaming again. This is a lot of noise compressed into a too-small space.

There’s a broken hockey stick mounted on one wall, split violently in half.

Someone took a hammer to it and fixed it up there, messy but decisively permanent.

There’s nothing else around it, no plaque or sign, no framed photo, nothing to explain the significance of that shattered piece of fiberglass.

Something hot and jittery bolts up my arm, slithering around the top of my spine.

“Yo, Kicks,” Hayes says. He frowns. “You all right, bud?”

“Just tired.”