Page 117 of Lighting the Lamp
My feet slow and then stop, the hallway stretching ahead of me, but I can’t move. I dig my fingers into the hem of my borrowed jersey, twisting the fabric so tightly my knuckles go white. It’s too big on me, and the material hangs loose, familiar, and wrong.
This is a terrible idea.
I stop just a few feet from the entrance to the locker room, close enough to hear muffled voices behind the door. My pulse drums in my ears, loud and relentless, nearly drowning out my thoughts, until one voice breaks through the chaos.
Beau said he wanted to be with me.
Beau said he was going to prove to me we belonged together, that he wanted me just as much on the good days as the bad.
He did that for a little while. Just long enough to allow myself to open up to him, and then he ghosted me like I was a problem he didn’t know how to solve. He had a good reason, at least in his mind. He was afraid. But of what? Afraid that his feelings are changing? Afraid that if this doesn’t work out, he’ll lose more than just a girl? Or worse, afraid to tell me he wants to go back to the way things were before I made the mistake of believing I could matter to someone like him.
Why didn’t I just ask him?
I didn’t use one of the thousand chances I had to ask because I couldn’t. I’m scared, too. Instead, I let the silence stretch. I let the weight of everything unsaid bury me. And then I mauled him like some emotional teenager starved for attention. I let my physical need to be close to him erase my unease. Touching him was easy, but asking him if he still wanted me would’ve required courage I don’t have.
But what if he didn’t mean it?
I can’t get that thought out of my mind. Did any of that even happen a few days ago? Am I walking into the fire, thinking everything is going to be all sunshine and roses, but he has been thinking of a quick exit? What if I read this entire thing all wrong?
The ache at the base of my skull sharpens, blooming behind my eyes, and I press a trembling hand to my temple, trying to steady the quake inside me. My breath is ragged and uneven, scratching its way through my throat like it’s catching on every splinter of doubt I’ve tried to shove down.
I can’t do this. Not now. And sure as fuck not like this.
My knees threaten to buckle, and for a split second, I wonder what would happen if I just sank to the floor right here. If I gave in and let the concrete swallow me whole. The tunnel seems to pulse around me, too bright and too quiet all at once. The sting in my chest presses higher, pressing into the fragile place where my voice lives. It comes out cracked and hoarse, barely more than air:
“Not knowing is better than knowing any day,” I whisper to myself, bitter and breathless. “At least if I turn around now, I still get to pretend.”
Pretend he still wants me. Pretend I haven’t already lost him. Either way, pretending is always my go-to, anything I have to do to not face reality. I pivot, halfway backpedaling toward the exit, when I collide with something solid and hard.
I stumble back with a gasp, a sharp noise tearing from my throat as my shoulder clips theirs. My heart slams so hard it blanks my brain for half a second. The entire world tilts, my balance gone, and I reach out instinctively—grabbing at air, at nothing—because my body is already bracing for the fall. But I don’t fall. A hand reaches out and grips me around the shoulders.
“Shit, sorry—” I start, voice high and shaky, but the words die in my mouth as I look up and realize I’m not alone anymore.
The panic doesn’t stop immediately, but it lingers. It echoes through my body in waves. My pulse pounds in my ears like a drumbeat out of time, my vision still blurry at the edges, like I’ve been holding my breath underwater. I blink, trying to make sense of the face in front of me, the broad shape of the chest I just slammed into, the familiar logo on the hoodie stretched across it.
The man stares back at me with wide, startled eyes, his brows drawn in the soft confusion that means he wasn’t expecting me either. He’s tall with shoulders like a truck and that same lingering pre-game energy that clings to all of them before a big game, the visible buzzing that sits just below the skin. But the concerned expression on his face makes my blood freeze.
“Hey, ” he says, voice low and a little tentative. “You okay?”
Am I?I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. I’m not sure if I’m mortified or if the heat rushing to my cheeks is embarrassment or leftover panic. My body remains unconvinced of my safety, but something in his voice cuts through the noise in my head enough to stop the freefall.
“Yeah, I—sorry. I wasn’t looking,” I respond quickly, not sounding the least bit convincing.
His gaze drops to the jersey and the hem still twisted in my fists, and I swear his mouth tugs into a knowing smirk.
“You must be looking for Hendrix,” he says, and there’s something light in his tone now. “I’d guess Beau, but considering you’re wearingCooper’snumber…” He trails off with a low whistle and a raised brow.
I freeze, the blood draining from my face as I remember what jersey I’m wearing.
Shit.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Alise
The man blocking my escape grins like I’ve walked straight into his trap. I know that face, or at least, I think I do. It takes a beat for my brain to sort through the blur of introductions, pre-game chatter, and sideline glimpses before the name clicks into place.
Even out of uniform, Tim Bower is impossible to miss, all broad shoulders and easy swagger. His dark hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, and there’s a faint red line on his cheekbone. He smells faintly of soap and something sharp and clean, an aftershave that lingers long after he’s gone.
