Page 16 of Lighting the Lamp
I choke on the last word, and I hate it. I hate that I’m shaking, that I care this much, and that no one else is saying what we’re all thinking. We’ve seen this before. This could be exactly what was wrong with Uncle Mark and that it could’ve taken Beau.
Parker’s eyes darken, focusing on Cooper. “She’s right. What the hell is wrong with you?”
Cooper’s jaw tightens, face flushing with something between guilt and defiance. “I’m trying to understand what happens next?—”
“Then listen!” I shout. “Because what happens next is that Beau stays alive. Not worrying about getting cleared. Not putting the team first. Not pretending everything is fine when clearly it’s not.”
I can’t breathe. My chest heaves as my vision blurs again, and I swipe furiously at the tears because I don’t want to cry in front of them. This isn’t just fear anymore; it’s pure rage. Rage that no one seems scared enough. Rage that Beau is trying to disappearinto himself. Rage that the only one who actually almost died is the one acting like it was nothing.
“Why don’t we all take a few deep breaths and calm down? Everything we are doing is to ensure there isn’t anything seriously wrong with Beau. All the tests are just a precaution.” Dr. Raman plasters on a smile before continuing. “Fainting on the ice, especially after cardiac irregularity, warrants further screening. Assuming the tests come back clean, they could clear him within a few days. But unfortunately, he can’t have any physical exertion until then.”
“Jesus,” Parker mutters under his breath, but not enough to hide the edge of panic.
The two of them keep asking questions I should probably listen to, but all of my focus is on Beau. He hasn’t argued or pushed back on anything Cooper, Parker, or the doctor has said, but the moment the doctor says no physical exertion, I see pain flicker across his face as his armor cracks.
Beau blinks slowly, his lips parting like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. His throat bobs with a swallow that looks like it hurts, and then his spine stiffens. “I can’t stay.”
“You can’t?” I say, and it comes out sharper than I mean it to, all edges and breath.
Beau doesn’t look at me, gaze fixed on the doctor like sheer willpower will make the man back off.
“We have a game this weekend. I’m the starting goalie. My team needs me.” His voice is too calm. It’s the voice he uses when he’s bleeding inside and doesn’t want anyone to see.
“You lost consciousness during physical exertion. You need to stay here under observation for twenty-four hours. It’s standard protocol.”
Beau shakes his head, small and tight. “I’m fine.”
He’s not fucking fine. I can see it plain as day in the way his hands won’t stay still. One opening and closing against thesheet, the other twitching near the IV like it’s foreign. The color is still missing from his face, and the sheen of sweat still clings to his hairline. His breathing is off, like every inhale is being measured, monitored. He’s trying to look okay, and it guts me because he’s scared. I see it clear as glass, even if no one else does.
“You passed out in the middle of the rink in full gear. You could’ve hit your head, Beau. You could’ve—” I stop myself before I saydied.
His eyes flick toward me on reflex, and for a second, I think I’ve gotten through. For a second, he’s not the player, protector, or anchor everyone leans on. Just my Beau, with his eyes full of that bone-deep fear he’s trying so damn hard to hide. I reach for his hand, and this time, he doesn’t pull away.
Then the curtain yanks back, and every muscle in Beau’s body goes rigid. His hand jerks in mine before slipping free. Just like that, he’s gone. Not physically; he’s still sitting in the hospital bed with wires taped to his chest and bruises blooming under his eyes, but he’s retreated into himself again. He shifts his shoulders back, angles his jaw, and lifts his chin like he just needs a few hours of sleep before hopping back on the ice, good as new.
“Someone want to tell me why the hell my starting goalie is in a hospital bed?” Coach’s voice cuts through the room like a whip.
Chapter Seven
Beau
It feels like every molecule in the room is holding its breath as Coach Mercer scans the room. He’s like a storm cloud that’s settled over us, waiting to strike. He’s traded in his black sweats and Timberwolves hoodie from practice for a perfectly tailored black suit. His face is unreadable, not a wasted motion as he scans the room, eyes locking on me sitting in the hospital bed.
My grip tightens on the edge of the hospital blanket, knuckles whitening against the sterile cotton as I wait for someone to break the silence. The material rustles under my hands, the only sound I can hear besides the dull, traitorous thud of my heart.
Alise takes a seat on the bed beside me, gripping my hand in hers. She tries to give me a reassuring smile before her eyes focus on Cooper, standing near the window. He is pacing back and forth with his arms folded tight, trying to burn off some of his nervous energy. Parker practically jumps to attention, his back ramrod straight and hands fisted at his side. It’s like everyone has readjusted to Coach’s presence in the room, and not in a good way. The air is completely still, like it knows better than to move before he speaks again.
Dr. Raman shifts uncomfortably in place before glancing at the monitor beside my bed and scribbling something in my chart and gently laying a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll be back in about thirty minutes to run the cardiac stress panel and echo.”
Bile rises into my throat as my stomach twists in on itself. The words cardiac and stress aren’t supposed to apply to thirty-year-old NHL goalies in the best shape of their lives. Heart conditions and stress tests are for fifty-year-olds with major health problems.
“Stress panel?” Coach questions, his focus snapping to Dr. Raman.
The doctor doesn’t even flinch before responding smoothly. “Precautionary. There’s no cause for alarm right now.
“Try to get some rest, okay?” Dr. Raman smiles grimly in my direction before releasing a resigned sigh and exiting the room.
Coach continues to stand in the middle of the room and watch me. His eyes sweep over me like he’s already deciding how to move the pieces on the board. To him, I’m nothing more than a broken piece of equipment. He’s calculating what it’ll cost to fix or replace me. Right now, to him, I’m not even a person in that gaze, but a variable that can easily be tossed aside.
