Page 63 of The Fall

Thirty-Two

The buzzer sounds; we’ve notched another win, the second one this week. Dallas’s crowd is silent as Hawks loops an arm around my neck. “Four-point night for Kicks!”

I try to smile, but any happiness I have sinks into a little pool of black that’s been growing inside of me.

Our locker room after the game overflows with New Year’s Eve plans. There’s no shortage of options for fun in Dallas, and the consensus seems to be building toward “do everything.”

“What about you, Kicks?” Hawks calls. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Think I’ll pass.”

“It’s New Year’s,” Divot protests. “There’s a hundred parties out there.”

“Not feeling it tonight,” I say, peeling off my base layers. “Too tired.” I’m not in the mood.

“Bullshit,” Hollow says. “It’s not even ten! What are you, old?”

“We’re gonna get you laid tonight!” Hawks chimes in.

Blair glances over, towel around his neck.

“Not tonight you’re not.” I wave Hawks off. “Seriously, I’m going to crash at the hotel. Go have fun, tell me all about it in the morning.”

Hayes, phone in hand, keeps scrolling through rideshare options. “One less seat I need.” And just like that, he grabs the room’s attention back to him. “Deep Ellum? Addison? Fair Park? Where are we going, boys?”

They move on to party planning rather than trying to rally the party-pooper. I take my time. I’m slow tonight on purpose, waiting for them to get going and get out of the room without me, and finally, they are on their way, a herd of bros on a mission.

Simmer claps my shoulder on his way. “Happy New Year, Kicks.”

“You too.” The words are automatic, hollow as a drum. His hand falls away and he’s swept up in the tide of bodies heading for the door, voices already climbing with anticipation.

The locker room empties in stages—first the loudest ones, Hayes and Hawks leading the charge with promises of bottle service and VIP sections.

Then the middle pack, debating between clubs versus bars, dress codes versus dives.

The stragglers trickle out last, still buttoning shirts and checking phones for addresses.

Blair follows the train of party-goers. Once he leaves, I’ll be alone. It’s what I wanted, but…

“Happy New Year,” I call to him.

Blair stops mid-stride and turns back. “You sure you don’t want to come?” He’s a quiet question mark in the doorway. The kindness in his hesitation is harder to take than the boisterous pressure from the others.

I shake my head. “Nah. Game tomorrow.” We’re here for a rare back-to-back in Dallas tomorrow. It’s a holiday special, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. League shenanigans.

He nods. The others’ voices echo from the hallway, fading fast. “Happy New Year to you, too.”

Then he’s gone, and I’m alone with the sweat-soaked gear and the dripping shower.

My hotel room seals me in silence.

I lie flat on my back on the bed, tie loose. I’m dressed for success, and failure has never been closer. I’m not tired. I’m empty.

I don’t want to be alone; I don’t want to be with people, either. The contradiction burns.

I can picture the guys out on the town: collars popped, cowboy hats and aviators on, already a few rounds deep in the beers. At some point, Divot will be hoisting someone onto their shoulders. Hollow is going to lose his shirt.

I’ve hated New Year’s Eve since my first year in the NHL.

I’ve spent four years begging to become someone else at the stroke of midnight, as if I could wish my shitty choices and bad executions away, wrap all the terrible I’d slipped into up in a bow, disclaim ownership, unshoulder any responsibility.

Every year I said, ‘this year is different.’

This year, it is. I had four points tonight. Two goals, two assists, and I’m in the midway point of a season that’s exceeded everyone’s wildest expectations. I should feel something . Pride. Relief. Anything.

The lamps throw bruise-colored light on the ceiling. Dust drifts in the beams. The deeper I breathe, the tighter my chest gets. I don’t want noise. I don’t want celebration. I want?—

I press my palms into my eyes and try not to remember little arcs of string lights, or the canal water lapping at his dock, or the echo of soft, sweet jazz.

Stop. Stop . I want to cage my thoughts behind a locked door. You don’t have him anymore. You never did.

I would give anything to kill off this want, to banish the ghost of his fingers on my cheekbones and the tickle of his exhale on my skin, forever. Never let me remember again. Never let me imagine, or want, or hunger for what I can never have.

And, at the same time, I would bleed myself out for one moment of that life back. I would give up everything, I would sell my soul, I would sacrifice my last breath if I could kiss Blair again.

I close my eyes and let myself sink into the memory I’ve been fighting. This once. Tonight. His laugh, low and surprised after some stupid joke I made. The way morning light caught in his hair. How he looked at me like I was worth looking at, worth knowing, worth keeping.

God, I’m pathetic.

A knock on my door shatters through my quiet.

My muscles tense before I sit up. I peek through the peephole, not knowing who to expect, but?—

It’s Blair.

My fingertips go numb. In the hall, he shifts, and the motion ripples through me. The door between us might as well be paper-thin. He radiates through it, charging the air in my room.

He knocks again, softer this time.

It takes me three attempts to work the deadbolt before I crack the door open, trying to look casual.

He’s still in his suit but has ditched his tie and his collar is open. There’s color in his cheeks and he’s trying to smile. He’s also holding a bottle of Glacier Cherry Gatorade in one hand and two hotel-grade champagne flutes in the other.

No matter how many times I’m near him, the reality of Blair shocks me all over again. His ice-melt eyes catch the hallway light, and I’m suddenly self-conscious about my rumpled suit and the fatigue on my face. “You’re not with the guys?”

He arches an eyebrow. “You think I’m craving bottle service and a shouted dance remix of ‘Mr. Brightside’?”

I laugh. “Hawks is always good for a couple crash-and-burns. That’s worth the cover charge most nights.”

“True. And tempting,” he admits. “But.” He eyes me. “Are you going to let me in, or should I drink this by myself in the hallway?” He holds up the Gatorade and the glasses.

I step aside. He passes close enough that our sleeves whisper together. I could count the muscles moving under his back. I don’t, but I could.

I’m trying to break myself of my addiction to him.

He sets everything on the dresser and leans against it, his arms crossed over his chest. “I wasn’t feeling the bar,” he says. “Hayes tried to sell me on karaoke, but there’s not enough alcohol in the world for me to make that much of a fool of myself.”

I huff. “He get the others up there?”

“Of course.”

The Gatorade bottle crinkles in his grip as he twists off the cap. Cherry-sweet scent hits the air between us. He tips the bottle over the first flute, and ghost-white liquid streams out. His wrist rotates just enough to control the flow, then he moves to the second glass.

My memory slams into me: him pouring with the same sure movements, the same focus. Except then his hair caught on tiny stars instead of hotel lamplight, water stretched behind him instead of beige walls, and I thought I had forever.

He sets the bottle down and lifts both flutes, offering one to me.

“Cheers,” he says, raising his glass.

“Cheers.”

We clink the flutes together. I hold mine tighter than I should. “How’d you get the glasses?”

“Asked the bartender. Pretty sure he thought I was trying to impress a girl.”

“But you brought them to me instead. He’ll be disappointed.”

“I’m not.”

I take a sip to buy myself time, the sweet cherry flavor washing over my tongue. Gatorade tastes better than it should from a champagne flute.

“Am I interrupting? Are you… heading to bed?” He hesitates. “Or were you… going out?”

“No, definitely not. I was… lying around.”

I might as well have said, Staring at the ceiling and trying not to think about you.

He takes a quiet sip of his own Gatorade. “The bartender said you can see fireworks from the roof. Do you want to go watch?”

We take the stairs. Blair walks ahead of me, the Gatorade bottle swinging low at his side. At the last door, he turns to me before he leans back against the push bar. When it opens, he stays there, holding it for me, and I slip past with only an inch between us.

Cool darkness washes over me as the roof opens up, biting across the backs of my hands and my overheated cheeks. The sky is ink and endless; Dallas hums under a wash of neon. The arena where we played earlier—and will play again tomorrow—is glowing.

“Over here,” Blair says, leading me toward the edge.

His shoulder settles next to mine. Below us, Dallas spreads in every direction, rivers of headlights flowing between towers of glass and steel. The bass from a dozen different clubs mingles into one continuous thrum that rises to us, mixing with distant laughter and the occasional car horn.

Wind cuts across the rooftop, carrying the scent of coming rain and Blair’s cologne. I take another sip of Gatorade to have something to focus on besides how right it feels to stand here with him.

A burst of premature fireworks blooms somewhere to our left, gold and green sparks dying against the dark. Blair tracks them with his eyes, and I track him.

He braces his forearms on the railing. “Twenty minutes till midnight.”

“Happy almost.”

He laughs. I’ve missed his laugh. In my memories, I heard it all the time, and in reality, I used to try to hold it in my mind as I was sobbing on the floor.

His head tilts my way after he sips his Gatorade. His throat bobs, and his eyes narrow on me.

“What?” I ask.

“Feels weird to say it like this, but… there’s something I never told you.” He bites his bottom lip and rolls it between his teeth. “About why you’re in Tampa.”