Page 151 of Lighting the Lamp
Langley knocks his fist against mine. “Thanks, Coach.”
There’s a burr of feeling under my ribs at that. Langley used to follow my skates like a shadow; now I follow his calm. I lock my tablet and slide it into the beat-up leather folio Alise found for me at a thrift store. It smells faintly of cedar and old paper, a lot like my life now. Instead of sweat and rubber, it’s more like wood, ink, and something that lasts.
Across the room, Cole is rolling his shoulder like he’s trying to persuade it into cooperating. The wrap under his pads peeks a thin line of white just at the edge of his jersey. He wasn’t supposed to come back this season, but with Mercer gone and me forced to take an early retirement, he said he was ready to lace up his skates again. Durable and just as stubborn as an old rope, my brother.
“Good?” I mouth, and he flashes the cocky half smile that saysOf course, which translates in brother toIt hurts like hell, but I’m not giving you that satisfaction.
Cole does a quick stick flip, catching it behind his back because he can’t not show off even when his rotator cuff would prefer a nap and some ice.
“Hey.” Sammy, Cole’s personal shadow and cheerleader, slides up to him. “Can you tape my knob like yours?”
“Kid, my knob’s got more miles on it than your entire dating history.” Cole grins, plucking the stick out of Sammy’s hands and starts wrapping it with practiced, smug precision.
There’s a rhythm to this room I missed when I was on the wrong side of the glass. Even now, on the right side, but dressed in joggers and a quarter-zip instead of pads and a chest protector, I feel it deep in my bones. Maybe that’s what broke me the most when the diagnosis came. The drumbeat stopped, and all I could hear was my own ragged and untrustworthy breathing.
Now it’s steadier. Six months on meds I once resented, early nights instead of bar crawls, and learning that living isn’t about pretending I’m unbreakable. My heart’s not perfect—never will be—but it beats clean enough that the doctors nod and tell me I’m holding my ground. Prognosis? Manageable, with the right care. Outlook? Good, so long as I keep choosing steady over reckless.
“You gotta get that look off your face.” Cooper’s voice skims in from my left.
He’s shed the suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The man was born to be a head coach, and it’s a little rude how well he’s slid into it. Six months and he has the whole bench beating to his metronome, and the league hates him for it.
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to throw yourself in front of a slapshot with nothing but your ribs,” Cooper deadpans. “You’re a coach now, remember? We throw clipboards, not bodies.”
“Clipboards break easier than ribs, but point taken.”
His eyes flick toward the whiteboard, then back to me. “You think we’re ready?”
“You’re asking me?” I glance at the fresh scrawl with simple directives and bold arrows that could cut glass.
“I ask the guy who sees everything.”
“Tighten the F3. They’re sneaking behind him in transition, and it’s gonna burn us if we don’t clamp down. And Cole’s gonna want an early heavy shift to prove something. Don’t give it to him. Make him stew.”
“You gonna fight me if I ignore that?” Cooper snorts, shaking his head.
“Yup.”
The corner of his mouth twitches as he claps my shoulder and turns to the room. “Two minutes!”
The room pitches to a higher frequency as trainers whip around with last-second water bottles. Someone thumps the radio, and the playlist hiccups, landing on a beat that feels like thunder crawling up your spine. Then I hear a quick and familiar knock on the door.
Alise slips through the cluster of equipment managers and bench staff wearing her usual game day uniform of one of my green Timberwolves oversized sweatshirts and black leggings, a lanyard badge, and a smile that undoes the knots I didn’t know I’d tied today. I swear the decibels drop in a ten-foot radius when she’s near, and not because she’s quiet. She’s riotously not quiet, but whenever she’s near, it’s like time bends and noise turns to background texture; there’s just us.
“You lost?” I ask because we’ve been playing that game since Bower found her in the tunnel all those weeks ago, daring to wear my brother’s jersey.
“Extremely. I was looking for the world’s grumpiest coach with the softest heart.”
“You should check Colorado’s bench,” I say, but my mouth gives me away by twitching. “What’s up?”
She steps closer, gaze flitting to my tablet, to the Sharpie, then to the stripe of sweat darkening my collar. “I have something for you.”
“If it’s a pregame pep talk?—”
“It’s better.” She rises on her toes and hooks a finger in my collar, tugging me down like a secret. “It’s a bribe.”
“For?”
