Page 1 of Lighting the Lamp
Chapter One
Beau
Iknew something was off before I even touched the ice, but there was no time for me to check in with Parker before warm-ups. I skipped our team skate this morning, hoping the extra sleep would help, but I fear it had the opposite effect. Everything hurts, and I mean everything. My hips are so stiff that I’m afraid no amount of stretching will help loosen me up, but I keep going anyway. What other choice do I have? I’ve started every game since the first half of my rookie season, and I’m not about to change that now. Who cares that I feel like a ninety-year-old man in full pads?
I just need to lock in and get moving. Once I get back into the swing of things, I’ll be fine. Right. Maybe if I repeat that enough, I’ll believe it. I inhale deeply, trying not to focus on how my pads feel heavier than they should as Cooper skates toward me, deking to the left. I feel like I’m moving in slow motion as I watch the puck slide into the net behind me.
“What’s going on with you, Beau?” Cooper growls as he comes to a stop beside the net, but I ignore him, keeping my eyes focused on my teammate coming toward the goal for another shot. Luckily, my glove moves quickly, snatching the puck out of the air and dropping it onto the ice beside the net.
“Nothing. I figured I’d let you get at least one goal today, old man.”
“Who the heck are you calling old? You’ve officially entered your thirties, baby brother.”
“Fuck you, Cooper. I’m still in my twenties for another few hours. Don’t call the nursing home yet.”
“Nursing home…” Cooper begins before wrapping his arm around my neck and pulling me down toward the ice.
“I’d love nothing more than to watch you ladies flirt for the rest of warm-ups, but some of us would like to get a few shots on net before the game starts,” Crosby snaps.
“Apologies, Your Highness.” Cooper releases me quickly and makes an exaggerated bow toward Crosby, who is standing at the top of the crease.
“Only a few more. I need to finish doing my stretches,” I grumble, positioning myself in the goal.
Crosby and the other wingers take a few more shots before skating toward the bench to continue their pregame rituals, and I head to a quiet corner and slowly lower my body to the ice. Each movement sends a ripple of pain through my joints as if they’ve been stuffed with hot gravel.
“I just slept wrong. Nothing to be too concerned about,” I mumble to myself, wishing I believed that, but I know deep down that something isn’t right.
Like Cooper loves to remind me, I’m no longer the same spring chicken I was when I entered the league after college. I spend almost every day doing some sort of physical activity, stretching religiously, and doing my mobility drills both at practice and at home like clockwork. I have a feeling this is so much more than sleeping wrong, but I can’t think about that right now. I need to get my head in the game and help my team bring home a much-needed W.
By the time I finish with my butterfly stretches and the referee blows the whistle signaling the start of the game, my body’s not responding. My quads feel like they’ve been filled with wet sand as I climb to my feet and skate across the ice toward the bench. I feel like I’m one missed step away from pitching forward and landing face-first on the ice, finally losing my argument with gravity, but I manage to remain upright. I squint for the millionth time. The lights are too bright. It’s not just the usual glare on the ice from the lights overhead; it’s something else. Even the scoreboard is stabbing at the back of my eyes, leaving a dull ache across my forehead.
“You good, Beau?” Coach asks, gripping my shoulder and giving it a small squeeze, sending shooting pain through each of my limbs. “We need you to have the game of your life today.”
“I’ve got it covered. No problem, Coach.” I plaster a fake smile on my face as I blink hard, trying to clear the blur, but it doesn’t work.
“That’s what I like to hear.” He nods before moving out of the way so I can step into the box.
Instead of shooting the shit with the team, I make my way to the end of the bench and pull my helmet off. My hair sticks to my forehead, drenched in sweat, as I try to focus on anything besides how every one of my joints feels like they’ve been wrapped in wire. I rotate my shoulder, trying to find some relief, but it only makes the pain worse. None of this makes sense.
I’m hydrated and well-rested. I would love to chalk up the way I’m feeling to fatigue, altitude, travel lag, or anything else but what it really feels like. Anything but the growing fear gnawing at the base of my skull. Deep down, I know this isn’t just a terrible stretch. There’s something very wrong with me, and hell if I know what the fuck it is. No matter what it is, it has to wait. I have a game to win.
The crease has been mine for the last seven seasons. I know the angles better than I know my condo. I’ve watched my brothers play enough that I’ve learned to read body language, to know how they are going to move before they do, while also keeping an eye on the puck. Anticipate. React. Own the space. That’s what Coach James told me the first time I stepped in front of a net in high school, and it’s a phrase I’ll never forget.
But tonight, it’s like my body’s lagging half a second behind. The crease feels smaller—too small tonight. Maybe I just take up less space in it than I used to. I spent most of my life on the ice, but none of that matters. Either way, Calgary won’t be lighting the lamp any more tonight.
We’re halfway through the second period, and Calgary is up, 2–1. The arena is vibrating. Fans slam the glass behind me, and cowbells clang; the noise becomes almost unbearable every time the home team completes a clean pass, which hasn’t been very often today. Usually, I thrive under pressure.
Tonight, it’s a weight pressing between my shoulders, just behind my eyes. My pads feel heavier than they should. My glove hand is slower. My knees protest each time I bend, ready for them to get a shot on the net. My defense has had my back all game, keeping them as far away from me as possible, but it can’t last forever. Even slight movements send ripples of excruciating pain through my joints. I shift on my skates, attempting to center myself, but the pressure behind my knees spikes the moment I drop into position. My body moves, but not with me. It’s like I’m trapped just behind the beat of my own rhythm.
“Faceoff to the right of Hendrix—Yetis are pressuring. Timberwolves’ defenses scramble to reset?—”
I blink hard against the overhead lights, wincing as a stab of brightness slices behind my eyes. The red glow of the scoreboard halos in my vision like it’s mocking me. I used to stare into floodlights and barely notice, but tonight, it’s like they’re boring straight into my skull. I manage to focus long enough to catch the puck drop, but I can’t seem to track it as it moves across the ice. My eyes follow the shape, but my reaction time has been molasses all night. Jarvinen snaps a pass into the slot, and my body moves on its own accord after years of practice. Pain burns up my spine, but I grit my teeth and ignore it, shifting my weight to the right. My hips are slow to engage, practically locked into place, making it impossible for me to get there in time. Hoping at least to get my glove on it, my arm shoots out, but it’s too late. Thankfully, the puck smacks off the post, skipping dangerously across the crease. I collapse forward onto the ice, my glove shooting forward, pinning the puck beneath it. I freeze at the sound of the whistle reverberating in my head, causing moisture to pool behind my eyelids, but I will it away.
Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.
Everything is fine.
