Page 65 of The Fall

Blair thinks. “Valentine’s Day, 2022. I hid confetti in everyone’s helmets. It stuck around for months . It was on a game jersey two months later. One of the trainers got it off of Simmer before it made the national broadcast.”

I snort.

“What about you?” he asks, nudging my fork with his to get at the last of the frosting. “Any pranking experience?”

“No. That wasn’t my role.” My role was to keep my head down. To shut my mouth and do exactly what I was told, and I couldn’t even do that.

Blair’s playful expression from a moment ago fades. He studies me, sucking on his fork. “Do you ever miss Vancouver?”

“Never.”

“What about your dad?”

I could tell him the truth, that my dad’s pride feels a moving target I’ll never hit. “He’s probably taking notes on all my mistakes.”

“You had a four-point night.”

“He’d bring up the turnover in the second period. Or my board battle in the third, when I lost the puck.”

Blair goes quiet, his expression shifting. His gaze slides past me toward the lobby entrance.

I twist in the booth to look. Hayes is weaving through the scattered tables, and the neon-pink cowboy hat perched on his head is impossible to miss.

He’s clutching a plastic cowboy boot—also pink—sloshing with frozen margarita.

The tequila hits me before he does, sharp and sweet and strong enough to make my eyes water.

“There you are,” Hayes cries out. “You disappeared, Calle.”

Blair’s fork pauses mid-air. “You know I don’t do crowds on New Year’s.”

Hayes drops into the booth beside me. The plastic boot sloshes dangerously as he sets it on the table. Pink slush threatens to spill over the rim. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with alcohol and leftover adrenaline from whatever party he just escaped.

“Yeah, but you usually sulk in your room,” Hayes says, adjusting the ridiculous hat.

“We were watching fireworks. Nothing secret about it.”

“Mm-hmm.” Hayes draws out the sound, lips wrapping around his straw again. His eyes dart between us, taking in the intimate corner booth, the shared dessert plate with its two forks. “And then you came down here for... cake?”

“The kitchen was closing,” I say.

“Get tired of the wild party?” Blair asks.

“Place was mega-boring without us. We livened it up. How was the view?”

“Great,” I say. “Clear night.”

Hayes takes another long pull from his boot, the pink slush making obscene sucking sounds through the straw. His gaze ping-pongs between us like he’s watching a tennis match where the ball is made of secrets.

“We-ll,” he draws out the word. “I’m heading up. Skate tomorrow.” He pushes himself up from the booth. The cowboy hat tilts at a precarious angle. He grabs his boot, takes one more obnoxious slurp, then points the straw at us. “You two enjoy your... cake.”

Hayes shoots me one more look before heading to the elevators. When he’s gone, Blair stirs his fork through the chocolate sauce left behind on the plate.

The bar feels smaller suddenly, the dim lighting more intimate. The bartender has disappeared into the back, and the business couple at the bar are on their phones. We might as well be alone.

When I look back at Blair, his eyes hold none of their usual storms. He’s staring at me. “I don’t talk about Cody. Not with anyone. But with you...” He trails off.

I want to touch him, to kiss him, to pull him close and breathe him in until we’re one person instead of two. I want to know if his heart races when we’re close like mine does. I want impossible things.

I want to ask him a thousand questions. I want to ask if he dreams about a life he’s never lived. If he ever wakes up reaching for someone who isn’t there. If he’s ever felt like he’s missing something vital but can’t name what it is.

I drop my gaze to the table, to the remnants of chocolate smeared across the white plate.

Every breath takes effort. Every second stretches.

“I should go,” he says, but he doesn’t move. “We have a big day tomorrow.” He stands, and I know our night is ending. The magic dissolving, reality rushing back in. “Night, Kicks. See you in the morning.”

My hands ache from not reaching for him. “Night.”

The word is a whisper past my lips. He’s already turning away, and I’m memorizing the line of his shoulders, the way his shirt pulls across his back. The bartender reappears from wherever he’s been hiding, rattling bottles behind the bar. Ice clinks into a glass somewhere.

Blair pauses three steps from the table. His hand rises to the back of his neck, fingers digging into muscle like he’s working out a knot. “Actually—” He turns back, and the bar lights catch in his eyes, turning them translucent. “Thank you. For listening.” His hand drops. “For being you.”

Heat rushes up my neck. I manage a twitch of my lips that might be a smile, might be nothing at all.

“Anytime,” I tell him, because it’s true. Because I’d give him anything he asked for and more besides. I’d listen to him talk about anything—his childhood, his fears, his dreams—for hours. Days. All I want is to bring him peace, even if what he needs isn’t me. Even if I unravel. Even if I break.

His throat works around a swallow. For one wild second, I think he might come back to the table. Might slide back into the booth and tell me whatever’s written in the tension of his jaw, the set of his mouth.

Instead, he nods and walks away.

Morning comes too early, with my phone alarm chirping from the nightstand. I swipe it silent and roll onto my back. Last night filters back in fragments: the game, the rooftop, Blair’s confession about bringing me to Tampa, about what playing with me means to him.

There was also a text from my dad, one I missed until I was already in bed.

Happy New Year, kiddo. Saw your game.

I’d clenched up until I read his next message.

You’re awesome.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this version of my father with the one who used to dissect every shift, every pass, every decision I made on the ice.

My body protests when I sit up. Four-point night or not, hockey leaves its marks. My legs are lead. But underneath the exhaustion, the memory of Blair’s voice in the dark and the way he looked at me in that empty bar sings.

Thank you. For being you.

I push my palms against my eyes until colors burst behind my lids. This thing between us—whatever it is—feels like standing on thin ice and hearing it crack beneath my skates. One wrong step and I go under.

Blair brought me here. The mess of that sits inside my chest. I turn sideways, stretch my arm out, and grab the pillow next to me to curl around it.

I lie there too long. Every part of me feels heavy except for my thoughts. They skid, veer, snap back to Blair, until my phone buzzes with a text.

Meet me in the visitor’s equipment room in 20.

Twenty minutes later, I’m walking down the quiet hallway of Dallas’s arena, carrying two coffees from the hotel café. When I reach the equipment room, the door is cracked. I nudge it open with my shoulder.

“Special delivery.”

Blair looks up from where he’s sorting through a box of toddler-size jerseys.

That’s his prank: he’s replacing everyone’s jersey with a two-year-old’s.

His hair is still damp from the shower, and he’s wearing jeans and a Mutineers hoodie.

“Perfect timing.” He takes one of the coffees. “I needed this.”

“How’d you get these?” I pick up one of the toddler jerseys. It’s Hawks’s, and it’s perfect in every detail, including the name and number on the back.

“NHL store sells them for kids.” Blair sips his coffee. “I ordered a whole team set last month.”

“You know Hawks is going to try to wear it anyway.”

“Guaranteed.” Blair taps his cardboard cup against mine. “Pete is grabbing the hangers.”

“Think they’ll figure out it was us?” I ask.

“Hayes will.” Blair hands me Hollow’s jersey. “He knows it’s my tradition.”

“But he doesn’t know I helped.”

Blair’s eyes meet mine. “No. That’s new.”

Hawks stops dead in his tracks at the door to the room. “What the actual fuck?”

Hollow holds up his tiny jersey on its hanger, squinting like he can’t figure out what he’s seeing. “Did the washing machine shrink them?”

“It’s a kid’s jersey, dumbass.” Divot punches Hollow’s arm. “Someone switched them out.”

Confusion gives way to laughter. The sound rolls through the room in waves, bouncing off concrete walls and metal lockers. Even Coach cracks a grin before he catches himself and schools his expression back to a scowl.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Hawks says, but he’s laughing too, holding up the tiny jersey like evidence in a crime. “Who even makes these this small?”

“For babies, you giant,” Divot says. “Normal human babies, not whatever you were.”

When Hollow attempts to pull the jersey over his head and gets stuck halfway, Blair’s composure cracks. A laugh escapes, quick and bright, before he seals his lips together.

“Someone help me,” Hollow’s muffled voice comes from inside the fabric prison he’s created. His arms wave above his head.

“Whoever did this,” Hawks announces, “is a genius and also dead to me.”

Blair catches my eye. The corner of his mouth twitches.

Hayes wanders over and leans in, dropping his voice. “Annual Captain’s prank, right on schedule, but I’m sensing a new influence this year.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” I say. Blair maintains a perfect poker face.

“Sure.” Hayes looks between Blair and me. “Nothing suspicious about you two at all.”

Practice itself is loose and playful. As expected, half the team tries to squeeze into their mini-jerseys. Hawks plays bare-chested beneath his pads, his baby jersey around his neck. Hayes wears his dress shirt over his pads and the jersey like a headband.

Everyone’s riding the high of last night’s win and this morning’s surprise through the whole of skate. After, in the showers, Hawks belts out “Auld Lang Syne”.

At lunch, Blair sits next to me.

“Nice execution this morning, accomplice,” he says.

“Not bad yourself, mastermind.” I hold out my bottle of water for a toast. “Same time next year?”

Blair smiles. “I’d like that.”