Page 71 of The Fall

Thirty-Five

It’s been three days since he kissed me in my apartment. Three days of texts and stolen moments, and three days of waiting for tonight.

I rub my palms against my jeans. My reflection in the glass of his front door holds still, half-inside my mind, half-out of it. My finger hovers over the doorbell.

Before I touch it, the door swings open.

Blair fills the entry, solid and sun-burnished. He’s immaculate, wearing a gray T-shirt stretched tight across his arms, his hair damp and messy like he’s run nervous fingers through it endlessly since showering, but I catch the tension beneath his calm that matches the trembling in my hands.

“Right on time.”

“Had to startle the captain with my punctuality.”

“Glad you made it. Traffic okay?”

“Yeah, the Uber got me here.” Even after all this time, I still haven’t bought a car.

He welcomes me into his home, and the same known-unknown sensation from Thanksgiving washes over me. He slips into small talk: here’s the entry bench, I can drop my stuff anywhere—I still have my gear bag with me from the rink—do I want water or Gatorade?—

He’s nervous. He means to sound effortless, but his voice is deeper than usual. I drop my bag by the bench. “Water’s good,” I say. I follow him to the kitchen. “Nice place.”

He hands me a water bottle from his fridge. Our fingers brush. “Thanks. Bought it after my second season here.”

I take a sip, watching him. His eyes dart away, then back. I’m in his house for our first date and both of us are fucking rattled.

I lower the bottle, searching for words. We’ve been through so much, and now we’re standing in his kitchen, two feet apart, acting like strangers.

Enough of this. I ditch the water bottle and circle the island. He watches me come to him like he’s facing down a breakaway.

I take his hand from where he’s gripping the counter edge, and, before he can blink, I drop a kiss to his knuckles.

He exhales. His hand curls around mine, and the barrier between us shatters.

Blair steps forward, erasing the space I’d crossed. His free hand rises to my face, hovering a breath away from my cheek. I lean into his touch. His palm is warm against my skin, thumb grazing my cheekbone.

“Three days felt like forever,” he says. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About this.”

I turn my face and drop my lips to his wrist. “Me, too. Every minute at practice, I was counting down.”

That earns me a shy and crooked smile. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. His thumb moves over my knuckles. “Come on. Let’s sit outside.”

He slides the back doors open, and humid air, sweet with salt, spills across us.

The canal behind the house is a mirror of the sky, reflecting the evening’s sunset in a hush of moving water, slow and thick as syrup.

It’s quiet and peaceful, with only the rustle of the wind through the palms. He leads me to his outdoor couch. We sink down together.

All the seams of the world loosen. I want to drown and float in him at the same time.

His arm wraps around my shoulders, drawing me against his side. Our bodies meld together as the sky deepens from orange to purple. A boat drifts by on the canal, its wake spreading in gentle ripples.

Hockey comes up between us first. It’s safe territory. “How was your checkup with Doc today?” he asks.

“Good. The balance exercises and the stretching have really helped.”

He smiles. “You back on my line tomorrow?”

“I am.”

“Good.”

We joke about Hayes’s slap-shot and Simmer’s hatred of penalty kills and Lily’s Nerf obsession.

“How many wars have you had now?” he asks.

I groan. “I’ve lost count. I have permanent war wounds now.”

“She got you good last time.” His laugh is quiet and close, and it settles me deeper against his side as the sky fades around us. “She adores you.”

For a second, all the noise in my head hushes. The world feels simple here, tucked up with him.

“The team is different this year,” Blair says, after a moment, his eyes on the water. He turns to me. “Because of you.”

“Me? No way.”

“You brought the hunger we were missing.”

Heat crawls up my neck. I want to deflect, to crack a joke, but his gaze pins me in place. “Blair?—”

“No, listen. Before you came, I was going through the motions. Then you walked into that locker room, and…”

I have to close my eyes for a second to steady myself.

“You make me want to be better,” he continues. “On the ice. Off it. You always have.”

A new need crests inside me, to know the boy from Ontario who became this man beside me. I open my eyes and meet his gaze. He’s watching me, waiting.

“Tell me about home,” I say. It’s a risk, bringing up his past, but I want to know everything, and I want to know it from him. I want to know him , not the Blair who lived in my head.

He chuckles. “You know Canada: winters that freeze your nose hairs and the most beautiful mountains you’ve ever seen. What more is there to say?”

“It’s a big country. You’re from Ontario. I’m from BC.”

“Where all hikers and tree huggers and surfers come from.” He winks.

“It’s the difference between Timmies and craft coffee shops.”

He chuckles, and I grin. Then, his voice turns wistful.

“When Cody and I were little, he and I used to sneak out to the park. We were always on the rink there. Skating in winter, ball hockey in summer. We’d be out there so late.

” He laughs to himself. “We wore the paint off on the siding beneath our window from shimmying up and down so many times. We tried to play dumb when our dad caught us, but…” He shakes his head.

“You taught him to play?”

Blair nods. “He was a natural, though. Better than me.”

The canal behind us throws gold into the air.

Our conversation slips into quieter gears, childhood stories, half-baked dreams. I tell him about learning to skate holding on to my dad’s hands, me with blue lips and freezing ankles.

I tell him about the first time I chipped a tooth, three years old and trying to race the older kids around the ice.

He snorts. “You get your edge work naturally, then.”

“Hollow compliments me on my backwards crossovers.”

“Kid’s got good taste. Yours are tighter than his.”

I tell him about my early days on the rink, when I fell over and over until my knees went raw but refused to leave. “That’s you all over,” Blair whispers. “Refusing to quit.”

We’re both smiling too much. We can’t get through a story without being ridiculous. He watches my lips when I talk. I trace the veins on the inside of his forearms with my fingers. He looks at me sideways, boyish, trying to smother his smile.

There’s something so tender about him now, stripped of the professional mask he wears at the rink. This Blair is softer, with crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he grins. His arm shifts under my touch, goosebumps rising in the wake of my fingertips.

He catches my hand and brings it up to his mouth.

“What are you thinking?” I whisper.

He lowers my hand but doesn’t let go. “That I should have done this months ago.”

I lean forward until our foreheads touch, suspended in this perfect moment. His thumb skates the edge of my jaw. I drop my lips to his collarbone, tasting him, tracing kisses up his throat.

He goes stone-still, and his voice is a whisper. “Torey...” My name sounds so naked on his lips.

I lift my face to his and brush my nose against his.

I cup his jaw, where tomorrow’s beard is already starting to roughen his skin.

His breath is shallow and fast against my hair.

Months of wanting and of pretending not to want, of glances across the ice, across rooms, across carefully maintained professional boundaries, all of it leading here.

He exhales, and then he’s kissing me. His hands slide up my back, pulling me to him until there’s no space between us. Full lips. Hot silence. He tastes like someone who’s been starved for softness.

I crawl into his lap.

His thighs flex beneath me as I settle against him, strong and solid from years on the ice.

My knees bracket his hips, and I grip his shoulders to steady myself.

The cotton of his shirt bunches under my fingers.

I’m dizzy with the nearness of him, with how real this is after so many nights of imagining.

“God,” he breathes against my mouth. “You’re?—”

I don’t let him finish; I capture his lips again. I don’t need words right now.

His tongue traces the seam of my lips, and I open for him with a sigh that he swallows. Slow, everything is unbearably slow. Heat gathers at every point where our bodies meet.

He runs a hand through my hair, cupping the back of my head. I rock forward, and he groans, the sound vibrating through both of us.

I can’t hold still; my hands cradle his face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. Every part of him I’ve memorized from a distance is warm and real and here. I could stay here forever, never breathe again unless it’s through him.

His hands glide down my back, pulling me closer. His mouth moves from mine to trail kisses down my neck, and I tip my head back, giving him access.

“Blair,” I breathe, threading my hands through his hair. “Don’t stop.”

My hips rock against him, seeking friction, seeking closeness. He groans so deeply that I feel it in my soul. His hands slide under my shirt and skim my ribs. Then he pushes, just the tiniest bit, slowing us down.

We break apart, both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. The last blush of sunset clings to his cheekbones as I study his face— swollen lips, eyes heavy-lidded with desire. He’s trembling.

“Timeout. I—I need a minute.” His voice is thunder beneath silk. “Fuck, you drive me crazy.”

I brush my thumb across his lower lip. “Good crazy?”

“The best kind.” His hands coast the length of my thighs. They stop at my knees, squeezing gently. His smile is small but devastating. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

I want to tell him I do know, because he does the same to me.