Page 11 of Lighting the Lamp
“You don’t look like my doctor.”
That should’ve gotten a smirk, but I catch a flicker of worry tightening his jaw instead.
“Ramona said Alise has been worried because you haven’t texted her back since the game.”
Lisey. Fuck. Cooper really knows how to hit me where it hurts. She is the last person I want to worry about me. I could have at least sent her a text letting her know I was fine. She sawme struggling on the ice and still managed to make me smile, and I ghosted her.
Not because I don’t care, but because I care too fucking much. Alise would know the minute I opened my mouth that something was wrong. She always knows. She’d hear the exhaustion in my voice or notice how long it took me to text back, and she’d worry. She’d show up at my condo with soup, a lecture about taking better care of myself, and those soft eyes full of concern that undo me faster than any hit on the ice.
She’d beg me to let the doctor run more tests, and I’d cave, but I can’t do that. If I let them dig deeper, it won’t just be tests. It’ll be questions and time off. I haven’t texted her back, and I feel like complete shit for it, but it needed to be done. Besides, what the hell was I even supposed to say to her?Hey, thanks for the birthday message. I’ve been dodging doctors and feeling like I’ve been hit by a semi-truck every time I lace up. You were right to be worried.
But now it seems like I made her worry anyway with my silence, and somehow that feels even worse.
I adjust my gloves, the leather creaking under the pressure of my fingers as I roll my neck. I keep my eyes locked on the boards ahead like there’s something there worth seeing. My shoulders twitch, a small crack in the armor I know Cooper picks up on the minute he pauses.
“I told her you were fine, and I’d check in with you,” he adds, voice calmer than before.
“Well, congratulations,” I mutter, cutting into a sharper stride. “You checked. Now stop hovering like a damn mother hen.”
Cooper lets me pull ahead. He doesn’t follow or argue, which is a first for him, but I feel his gaze measuring every strained stride as Coach blows the whistle.
I hate how tight my chest feels already. How hard it is to draw in a full breath without something catching. It should be better. I’ve had four days off—no travel, games, or early wake-ups—giving my body time to recuperate, but I still feel like I’m falling apart.
The guys fall into line without hesitation and start warm-up drills. They lead off with some easy ones, tight turns and crossover accelerations, while I get started with my stretches. My legs are already warm, but not in a good way. The usual burn in my thighs feels wrong, deeper than normal, and sweat is already gathering under my gear, even though I’ve only done a few stretches. Just pulling my mask down makes my shoulders ache, but I settle into the net like I’ve done a thousand times—shuffle back, post-to-post, gloves up, eyes forward.
“All right, take some shots from the slot,” Coach yells.
Cooper fires the first puck. It’s clean and low to my glove side. I catch it; the impact rattles more than it should. The sting lingers through my forearm, but I ignore it, tossing the puck to the corner and shaking the numbness out of my glove hand.
More pucks follow in quick succession. Crosby, Bower, Mackenzie, and Jace each come in from a different position on the ice. I track them, but it’s getting harder. My hands get slower with each shot, and my legs are even slower. It doesn’t take long for my teammates to notice, but no one dares say anything. Each one looks to Cooper for confirmation, but he just shakes his head.
I swallow hard, not from the pain but from fear. It’s the creeping fear that starts low in your gut and builds slowly, twisting tight around your ribs until you can’t tell if it’s something physically wrong with you or just panic. Neither is good in this situation.
After what seems like the millionth missed shot, Mack coasts by slowly, his brows pulled together as he squints at me. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“You look… off.”
“I said I’m fine.” It comes out sharper and more clipped than I mean to. “Really, I’m fine. It’s nothing to stress about. Maybe I really am getting old.”
Mack holds my gaze a second longer, then skates back toward the rest of the team, turning his head toward me as he goes, like he’s waiting for me to fall. I drop my gaze to the ice, my glove tightening around the stick. They’re noticing something is wrong.Shit.I try to stretch my arms between reps, shake out the tension like it’s just stiff from a few days off, but my shoulders burn and my heart gallops inside my chest.
Get it together. Push through. Just one more drill.
But the thoughts claw back in, unwelcome and familiar. What if it’s not nothing? What if it’s more than just fatigue? What if whatever this is doesn’t go away or ease up with sleep and wishful thinking? What if Coach finds out? And worse, what if Alise finds out?
Her face flashes behind my eyes, uninvited. The crease in her forehead when she’s worried. The soft way she says my name when something’s off. The way she watches me like she sees more than I want her to. She’ll put the pieces together, ask questions no one else dares to ask, and worse, she’ll ask them softly.
I can handle anger, frustration, and even distance. But I can’t take that kind of quiet care like she’s already bracing for the impact of bad news. Not from her or anyone else. I can’t let them down. I can’t be the reason my brother doesn’t get one more Cup win before hanging up his skates.
Don’t let her see you like this. Don’t let anyone see.
I reset in the crease, my pads vibrating under the weight of me and sweat trickling down my spine, cold and sticky beneath the layers. I blink hard, but the rink won’t stay still. The lines double, merge, and then snap back into place like a glitch I can’t fix.
The next shot comes in fast, and I instinctively lurch right to meet it, but the puck slips past my blocker, rattles the netting, and drops with a dull thunk behind me. Jace coasts by behind the net and doesn’t say a word. No chirping or gentle ribbing about being too slow, and that’s so much worse. This isn’t normal, but stopping would mean admitting there was something wrong. I’d have to explain to Cooper, Parker, and everyone that there is something off.
I clench my jaw behind the mask, low and crouched, pretending like I’m resetting. Not stalling as my world slowly spirals out of control. The sound of the whistle cuts through the rink, echoing off the glass.
