Page 91 of The Fall

Whistles shriek. Bodies converge. Through the ringing in my ears come the sounds of scraping skates, shouts, the crowd baying. I push to my knees, fighting blackout and nausea. Blood drips onto the ice. Hands grip my jersey, helping me up. Hollow is on one side of me, Hawks on the other. Then?—

Chaos.

Blair’s gloves hit the ice, two sharp cracks that cut through everything. His helmet follows, thrown away as he launches himself at Zolotarev.

“Calle, no—” A voice shouts, maybe Hayes’s, but Blair is beyond hearing. He grabs Zolotarev’s jersey with both hands, fabric bunching in his fists as he hauls him close.

There’s murder in Blair’s eyes, cold fury I’ve only glimpsed before, now unleashed.

Zolotarev tries to get his own gloves off, but Blair doesn’t give him the chance. He drives his knee into Zolotarev’s gut, doubling him over, then brings his fist up into his face. The crowd surges to its feet, their roar shaking the rafters.

I know hockey fights. This isn’t one. I try to stand, but the world spins. Hawks keeps his arm around me, steadying me as Blair systematically destroys the man who hurt me.

His next punch lands square on Zolotarev’s jaw, snapping his head back with a wet crack that carries over the crowd noise.

Blair ducks under Zolotarev’s haymaker and comes back swinging.

Left to the ribs, right to the solar plexus, left again to the same spot on the jaw.

Zolotarev’s mouthguard flies out in a spray of blood.

The fight is brutal and one-sided. Blair unleashes everything, each of his punches landing with the fury of a man who’s been pushed past his breaking point.

Zolotarev tries to throw Blair down, but Blair’s balance is perfect, his center of gravity low and controlled. The linesmen circle, waiting for an opening. Blair doesn’t give them one.

Finally, Zolotarev’s knees buckle. Blair doesn’t let him fall, hauling him back upright and keeping him in range for more punishment.

“Christ,” Hawks breathes. “I’ve never seen him like this.”

Again. Again. Blood sprays across the ice, and the linesmen finally separate them. “That’s enough!” The referee grabs Blair’s jersey. “Enough, Callahan!”

Blair shakes him off. His jersey is torn, his knuckles are split and bleeding, and his chest is heaving. As they escort him toward the penalty box, he turns, and our eyes lock across the ice. He points to me. For you. All of this is for you.

20,000 people disappear; there is only Blair.

The trainer guides me back to the room. My legs work, but barely, and the bright lights are needles through my skull.

I hold a towel to my nose while the overhead crackles with play-by-play: “—You don’t see leadership like that every day, folks. Blair Callahan sent a message to the entire league?—”

Dr. Lin shines a light in my eyes. “Follow the light, Torey. Any double vision?”

“No.”

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.” Blood’s still trickling from my nose. She hands me gauze. “March 21.”

I try to focus while the commentary continues.

“This Mutineers team has a rare chemistry this season, between Callahan and Kendrick particularly?—”

“Any nausea?” Dr. Lin asks.

“No.” I taste copper from my bloody nose. “My head hurts, though.”

“—Kendrick took a similar hit last season that ended his year. You have to wonder if that was going through Callahan’s mind?—”

“—relationship between Callahan and Kendrick has transformed the Mutineers’ offense this year?—”

“Dizziness?”

“A little.” More than a little, but I need to get back out there.

The commentators’ voices drift in and out, an ebb and flow of sound.

“—Mutineers rallying around this. Look at that bench. They’re ready to go through walls right now?—”

“...five for fighting and a major, but what a statement from the captain.”

“Count backward from twenty by threes,” Dr. Lin says.

The numbers come out a little slow, a little thick. My head throbs in time with the distant roar of the crowd, spiking and falling with the unseen play.

“Okay.” Dr. Lin clicks off her penlight. “You’re done for tonight. You’re showing minor concussion symptoms. Nothing severe, but given your history, we need to be cautious. You’ll be under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

A muffled cheer filters through the walls. Someone scored. Was it Blair? “Can I go back to the locker room?”

“No, it’s the quiet room for you, then straight home after the game. I want you to check in tomorrow morning.”

She lets me change, and then I’m escorted to the quiet room. The trainer guides me with a hand on my elbow when I sway.

The quiet room lives up to its name. Four walls, dim lighting, a deep couch. No TV, no screens, nothing to stimulate a brain that might be injured. Dr. Lin packs my nose with gauze, and then we sit in the silence together. I count down minutes left and replay the hit in my mind.

It wasn’t as bad as Vancouver—I didn’t lose consciousness—but the similarity is enough. What if… it had happened again? What if I’d woken up back in Vancouver?

What if this life isn’t real?

My phone buzzes from my jacket pocket. I fish it out, hiding it from Dr. Lin and wincing as the screen lights up. It’s a text from my dad.

Saw the hit. You okay?

Before I reply, the door opens and Hayes appears, still in his full gear. “How is he?”

“Concussed but stable,” Dr. Lin says. “He’ll need monitoring.”

Hayes crosses to me and lowers his voice. “Blair’s on his way. Coach is ripping him a new one.”

“Is he?—”

“His knuckles are hamburger, but he’s fine.”

I nod and close my eyes. The door opens and closes; Hayes is leaving, and the door closes behind Dr. Lin as she follows him. I’m alone.

The silence that rushes in to fill the space is heavy, broken only by the dull thudding inside my skull. Every beat echoes the sight of Blair’s fists, the sound of bone on bone.

He did that for me.

I slow my breaths and try to still the spinning world. The door opens and closes again, and I peek through barely-open eyes.

Blair is there, changed into street clothes but still dripping sweat from the game. He skipped showering. His fury is banked now, replaced with worry, and his eyes, still blazing, move over me from head to toe.

“Hey.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears. “What did Coach say?”

“Nothing good. It will be reviewed by the league.”

“Shit.” I stand too quickly.

“Don’t.” He crosses the room and reaches for me, then hesitates, his gaze dropping to his hands. His knuckles are split and smeared with Zolotarev’s blood and his own.

“I’m okay,” I say.

His hands hover at my waist before settling. He’s trembling. “You went down hard.”

“I’ve taken worse.”

“I thought—” He stops, shakes his head. “When you went down like that… I just reacted. I couldn’t stop myself.” He swallows. “And if you were hurt worse… I wouldn’t have stopped.”

For all his strength on the ice, this is where he’s vulnerable, in the places where fear finds him. I want to protect him from everything that hurts, even the things inside his own head. His breath hitches against my shoulder, quick and quiet, and I wrap my arms around him, holding him steady.

The man who threw punches for me minutes ago now needs me to be his anchor.

His fingertips graze my temple where my headache throbs. “Dr. Lin says you’re under observation.”

I nod. “Twenty-four hours.”

“Dizzy?” he asks.

“A little. It comes and goes.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he says. “Let’s go home.”