Page 87 of The Fall

Forty-One

“Twenty minutes to landing.”

Vancouver sprawls gray and glassy beneath the cloud cover. The last time I flew into this city, I still belonged to it. Now I’m returning as the enemy, and each flickering light below us is a pin on a map marking my failures.

“You good?” Blair’s pinky grazes my wrist.

“Yeah. Ready to get this over with.”

The landing gear grinds into place, and every jolt reminds me of a time spent sitting in the press box and pretending the boos didn’t bother me.

Hayes leans across the aisle, grinning like we’re headed to Disney World instead of the arena where twenty thousand people used to chant for my benching. “Excited to show your old team what they’re missing?”

“Thrilled.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Hayes says. “You’ll show them.”

Blair’s voice drops. “You’re not that guy anymore.”

He’s right; I know he’s right. The Torey who left Vancouver drowned in his own failures, and I’m not him anymore. But knowing I’ve changed doesn’t stop the memories of falling and failing under those lights while everyone sharpened their knives and waited for the impact.

Our hotel is downtown, a short bus ride from the arena. Rain slicks everything into mirrors: street signs, bus windows, even Blair’s hair where it escapes under his ball cap. He doesn’t say anything until we’re halfway there. “How’s your head?”

“Loud.”

There’s the coffee shop where I used to grab breakfast before practice, and the intersection where I’d sit in traffic, dreading another day of disappointing everyone.

When we arrive at the hotel, the rhythm of game day settles over everyone. We do this eighty-two times a year at a minimum, and we all have our routines.

The ride up to the rooms is endless. When we hit the ninth floor, I escape before anyone notices I’m holding my breath. I fumble with the key card and have to swipe it three times before the light flashes green. In my room, silence wraps around me, thick as puck fog on a bad ice day.

I should sleep. That’s what game day naps are for, storing up energy, letting your body rest before battle, but the bed might as well be made of needles for how relaxed I am. Game time is seven hours away, but it’s breathing down my neck.

I’m pulling off my tie when the knock comes. Three quick taps, barely audible. I know it’s Blair before I open the door, and there he is, tall and solid in my doorway. His dress shirt is untucked, the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Thought you might want company,” he says, voice low enough that it won’t carry.

“Yeah,” I say, stepping back to let him in. “I do.”

He studies my face, reading me like game tape. “This place is really getting to you?”

“It’s stupid,” I say, turning to stare out the window at the city I once called home. The skyline stretches out to the west, buildings I used to recognize, streets I used to walk. The beach is out there, too. And the hospital where I lost Blair.

Three years ago, I thought this place would be my future, but now it’s only another stop on the schedule, except it carries all these memories I don’t want.

Blair moves behind me, his footsteps quiet on the carpet. “You don’t have to be okay,” he says. “Not with me.”

I melt back into his hold. “I hated it here. I hated the rink, the city, the way everyone looked at me like I was a waste of a roster spot.”

“They’re fucking idiots. They wasted you. You were just getting started.”

“Didn’t feel like it then.”

“I know.” His lips brush my temple. “But you’re not the same player who left,” he says. “You’re not even the same person.” He pulls me toward the bed. I go willingly, letting him guide me down until we’re both sitting. “Talk to me.”

“Every time I think about stepping onto that ice, all I remember is how fucking awful I was here. I threw two years of my career away.”

Blair shifts closer. “You didn’t throw anything away. You learned here. You grew here, even when it hurt.”

“I couldn’t handle it.”

“You were a kid,” Blair says, squeezing my hand. “Nobody’s ready for that pressure.”

“They’re going to boo me tonight.”

“Let them.” Blair kisses my fingers. “It’ll be sweeter when you shut them up on the scoresheet.”

He kisses me, slow at first, and then deeper when I hook an arm around his neck.

The hotel room fades, and for a moment, I’m not thinking about Vancouver or the game or anything except Blair’s mouth on mine.

I lean into him fully, letting go of everything except the cadence of his breath and the soft scrape of stubble against my cheek.

When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his.

“You’re going to play your game tonight,” Blair breathes. “Not theirs.”

If I could bottle his confidence, I’d drink it all.

“You know who you are on the ice, Torey.”

“But what if?—”

Blair cuts me off with a kiss. “No what-ifs.”

He makes it sound so simple.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

My phone’s ringtone slices through my dreams, and I fumble for it, Blair’s arm heavy across my waist.

The caller ID makes me freeze. It’s Dad.

I haven’t heard his voice in months. We’ve been texting more since New Year’s, but everything between us is still careful. He sends me photos from Singapore, and I… I haven’t said much. A phone call feels dangerous, loaded with landmines.

Blair’s eyes are open, watching me.

I answer on the fourth ring. “Hey, Dad.”

“Torey? Did I wake you?” His voice is softer than I remember, carrying the echoes of an international call.

“No, I was getting up.” I ease out of Blair’s arms and sit up. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, I...” In the background, I hear traffic, the distant hum of a city. “I wanted to check in. I know you’re back in Vancouver today.”

“Yeah, we flew in this morning.” I brace myself. We said no hockey talk. Is this when he breaks and has to say something, on the day I’m facing down my nightmares?

“How are you feeling about being back?”

“It’s…” I could lie. Brush this off. Say it’s fine. “It’s harder than I expected.”

Blair shifts on the bed behind me. I glance over; his gaze is on me. He doesn’t speak; he brushes his fingers against the small of my back.

“I can imagine,” my father says, surprising me again. “That place holds a lot of difficult memories for you.”

My grip tightens around the phone. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “It does.”

For a second neither of us speaks. Dad’s voice returns, softer now. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone tonight.”

“I’m up in my head.” I breathe in, hold it, and blow out. Blair’s hand glides up my spine. “They still hate me here.”

“Forget them.” He echoes Blair, and Hayes, and everyone else on my team who have reminded me that Vancouver’s opinion is less than worthless these days when I’m one of the top-ten points leaders in the league. “You’ve got good people around you now.”

I nod even though he can’t see it. “This is the best team I’ve ever had.”

“I can see that when I watch you play.”

“You watch my games?”

“Every one. You look happy, Torey. Really happy.”

Happy. He’s not saying I’m playing better or that I’m producing more. He’s saying I look happy.

My eyes dart to the clock on the nightstand and I do the math quickly. “Dad, isn’t it, like, three in the morning in Singapore?”

“It is, but I wanted to call.” A rustle comes through the line as he shifts.

“It doesn’t matter what time it is or where I am, I’m always thinking of you.

” He breathes in. “I wanted to check in today. I know this game is going to be tough. But I wanted you to know, I’m proud of you, Torey.

Not only for how you’re playing, though that’s been remarkable.

I’m proud of how you’ve handled everything.

The trade, the new team, what you’re doing on your own. You seem a lot happier.”

“I am.”

“Good. That’s all that matters.”

All those years of believing I was never enough, or that love was something I had to earn through perfect plays and flawless games, and here he is, calling to check on me. “Thanks, Dad,” I choke out. “That means… more than you know.”

“I’ll be cheering for you.”

“I’ll try to score one for you,” I say automatically.

He laughs softly. “No. Have fun, okay? That’s all I want. Have fun, be happy, don’t let the past get to you. Whatever happened there, in Vancouver… that’s not you anymore.”

For a moment, I can almost believe that who I was isn’t welded to who I am now. “Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll try.” My eyes sting; I blink hard and swallow, holding the phone closer to my ear as if it might keep this version of Dad a little longer.

“Good. I love you, son.”

“I love you, too.” My voice cracks. “Thanks for calling.”

A pause, soft static across continents. “Anytime,” he says.

We say goodbye, and the call ends. I stare at the phone screen until it fades to black. Blair’s hand is still moving against my back. I sink back into him, letting his heart set a new rhythm for mine.

“I heard some of that.” Blair’s lips brush my hairline.

“He called to check on me. He was worried about me being back here.”

“That’s good, right?”

“It’s different. But good.” The whole conversation feels surreal. “He used to call before games to remind me about weaknesses in the opposing goalie. This was... he told me to have fun.”

Blair’s arm tightens around my waist. “You should listen to him.”

I turn in his arms until we’re face to face, his blue eyes searching mine. “We should get moving,” I say, even though leaving this bed means getting closer to puck drop.

I picture the arena glowing in the rain, all those seats filling up with people who still remember the kid I was here, too new, too green, breaking under the lights.

They’ll boo me tonight, the second my skate hits their ice, the moment I touch the puck.

Vancouver fans have long memories and they don’t forgive easily.

I was supposed to be their future, the hometown kid who’d lead them back to glory, but instead, I crumbled.

They’re right to hate me. I gave them nothing to cheer for.