Page 18 of Lighting the Lamp
Coach exhales sharply. “You don’t need another concussion or cardiac episode to feel useful.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything.”
“You’re trying to outrun the truth. Pretending you’re invincible doesn’t make you indestructible.”
“I’m not?—”
“Then why lie about the symptoms?” he cuts in, voice cold.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out because he’s right. I did lie about being cleared because I didn’t want to be seen as fragile, scared, broken open, and spilling out in front of the people who need me to be strong. Coach steps close enough that I can see the lines around his eyes.
“I trusted Cole to get his shit together, but he wasn’t man enough to do it. And now I have to sit by and wait for him to spiral until there is nothing left but pure devastation.”
“Say that again,” Cooper growls, lunging toward him, but Parker’s already grabbing him, holding him back.
“You don’t get to say a fucking thing about our brother!” Cooper shouts, straining against Parker’s arms. “You don’t get to twist his name into a weapon just because you’re a selfish prick that pushed away his own daughter.”
“This has nothing to do with Michele. Cole is a fucking drug addict who’d rather take pills than man up to his problem,” Coach responds calmly. “I can’t take the chance that Beau isn’t man enough either. He’s going on the IR until he can produce a certified doctor release that says he’s fit to play.”
My entire world is unraveling around me, shattering into a million pieces that I’m not sure I can ever put back together again. I can feel it in my chest, in the pressure behind my eyes, in the breath I can’t catch.
“Please don’t do this. Let me take the tests and train off-ice. Let me try. Don’t make this official. Not yet.”
Coach stands there for a few moments before sighing loudly. “Go home to Redwood Falls. Rest. Skate with the peewee team. Listen to your doctor. If the results come back clean, we’ll talk.”
I swallow the panic rising in my throat. “So that’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it. You’re on IR until playoffs.”
The moment the door shuts behind Coach Mercer with a dull click, something inside me caves. I stay frozen in place; my legs feel like they aren’t mine anymore—too heavy and too hollow all at once. The weight of the moment should’ve passed. He’s gone, and I’m on the injured reserve list until I get cleared. Completely. After a doctor has run all the tests and taken all the blood they want. But until then, I’m headed back to Redwood Falls. Coach has made his decision, albeit a bad one, but I can’t do anything about it. It’s over and done with, but my body doesn’t know that.
The sound of the door closing continues to echo in my chest like a gunshot as I try to breathe, just breathe. But the air doesn’t come out smoothly. It catches high in my chest, shallow and tight. My lungs feel like they’re shrinking, ribs cinched too tight to stretch. The room tilts again, but not like earlier when I stood up too fast. This time, the floor is sliding out from under me, and I need to grip the edge of the bed just to stay upright.
I blink rapidly, but my vision goes grainy around the edges, like someone dimmed the lights without warning. My heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest, nothing like the adrenaline rush I get before the start of a game or during a sprint drill. It’s erratic, like it doesn’t know how to beat anymore, only slam.
My fingers go numb, and my throat feels like someone is tightening a noose around my neck, slowly cutting off my ability to breathe. My skin’s gone cold, but I’m sweating under thehospital gown, and every breath feels like a war I’m losing. My hands fly to my neck, shaking furiously as I claw at the skin. I just need to loosen it, not completely, just enough so I can breathe.
What the hell is happening?
This isn’t pain. It’s not the flu, low blood sugar, or fatigue. This is something else. Something worse. And then I remember that I’ve seen this before. Not in me, but Alise. I try to exhale, to reset like I’ve told her a hundred times to do when she spirals, but it doesn’t work.
My hands are trembling, not that I know when it started, and I drop back onto the bed. I press my hands flat into the mattress, trying to feel something solid, but my fingertips are numb and my palms are clammy.
Something is wrong.
My vision wobbles at the edges like I’m watching the room through a narrow tunnel. My stomach’s flipping over, squeezing in on itself like I’m about to puke or pass out. Maybe both. I’ve held Alise through this. I’ve talked her down, whispered her through the storm raging in her mind, and rubbed her back while she gasped for air on the floor. But I’ve never felt it, and living through it is like drowning in open air.
I curl forward, elbows on my knees, trying to count like I taught her—In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three.—but the numbers don’t stick. The rhythm won’t come. My brain is too loud, my chest too tight, and the worst part is, I’m scared. I’m fucking terrified because I don’t know who I am without hockey. And now I’m not sure I even know how to breathe.
I turn my head and desperately search for Alise, needing her to say something, but she’s crying silent tears she’s not even trying to hide. But when our eyes meet, she just shakes her head, lips pressed together like it’s taking everything in her not to speak.
No, that’s what her eyes say. No, she won’t argue with Coach. No, she won’t fix this for me this time. And fuck, that breaks something in me because if she—the one who always shows up, always softens the fall—won’t fight for me, then maybe I am the problem. Maybe I am broken beyond repair.
My ears ring as I grip the blanket, digging my fingers into the thin cotton. I try desperately to stop my body from trembling, my vision from blurring as I will my fucking lungs to expand, but I can’t do anything.
“Beau?” Alise’s voice cuts through the ringing, low and gentle, but I can’t answer.
“Hey, you okay? You look—” Parker steps forward, brows knitting as he reaches for me, but stops at the last minute.
