Page 23 of Lighting the Lamp
“You sure?”
He meets Parker’s eyes, and for the first time tonight, his voice steadies. “Yeah. I need them to hear it from me.”
Parker nods, then sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “All right. I should go before Stacey sends a search party.”
“Want me to forge you a doctor’s note?” Cooper snorts.
“Only if it comes with a fake lab coat.”
“Ew, we donotneed to know what games you two like to play in the bedroom.” I make an exaggerated gagging noise before pulling him in for a quick hug and stepping back. I’m not much of a hugger, but in this case, I think we all might need one.
“Who said we’d make it all the way to the bedroom?” Parker winks, clapping Cooper on the shoulder before heading down the hallway toward the exit.
Cooper stands there, shoulders slightly hunched, like the weight pressing down on him has finally sunk into his bones. His arms hang loose at his sides now, fists no longer clenched, but a kind of soul-deep ache hollows out his face. It carves you out from the inside and leaves nothing behind but the outline of the person you used to be.
“He’s scared,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“I know.” I nod, throat tight with emotion.
“So am I.”
My breath catches as I look up at him, and for a second, I don’t see the captain. Don’t see the man who always has an answer or a plan. I see a big brother with shaking hands and no playbook. A boy who’s already lost too much and doesn’t know how to keep this from being the next name carved into the grief he carries.
“Me, too,” I respond, the words hanging between us like a fragile thread ready to snap.
We don’t speak again. We just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, in a hallway that smells like bleach and dread, under lights that hum too loudly and never seem to dim. No one cries. No one falls apart. Just the two of us fraying quietly around theedges, locked in this moment, trying to brace against a tide that’s already licking at our heels.
Maybe we don’t know what comes next. Maybe we’re terrified. But we’re not alone in it, and for now, that has to be enough.
Chapter Nine
Beau
The second Alise steps out the door, I stare at my phone like it might explode in my hand. My thumb hovers overMommain my contacts. I really don’t want to make this call, but I also can’t let her find out from someone else.
Cooper probably rang her the second I hit the ice, and knowing her, she’s pacing the kitchen floor in circles right now. Probably panicking, imagining the worst, and replaying every terrible thing that could’ve happened because she doesn’t have any answers.
I close my eyes, trying to steady the thundering in my chest. My hands aren’t shaking, at least not yet, but there’s a tremor in my gut. A pressure that hasn’t let up since I woke up a few hours ago. I’m terrified in a way I haven’t been since Dad died, but I can’t let her hear that in my voice. If I lose it, she’ll lose it. Right now, she needs me to be the calm one. So, before I can talk myself out of it, I take a deep breath, hit the call button, and lift the phone to my ear.
“Beau?”
She says my name like it’s a question, like she’s been holding her breath since the moment Cooper called and doesn’t know if I’ll be the same person when she exhales. Something inside mecracks open at the helplessness in her voice. I want to take it away, to tell her that there is nothing to worry about, but I also don’t want to lie to Momma.
“Hey, Ma.” I try to sound normal, like this is no big deal.
“You okay?” she asks, trying to sound casual, not like she’s bracing herself for my answer. “Cooper said that you collapsed on the ice during practice and are in the hospital.”
“Yeah. I mean… they’re just tests. They’re being cautious.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say too quickly.
Her silence stretches long enough that I can feel the disbelief radiating through the phone. “Don’t lie to me, Beauregard Tobias Hendrix.”
“Damn, Momma. Busting out my full name while I’m sick and in the hospital,” I respond, trying to deflect her attention so she stops prying further into what’s going on. I don’t want to tell her how terrified I am, how I may never play hockey again and don’t know how to live if I don’t have a stick in my hand. I want her and everyone else to let me laugh this off like it’s no big deal. The doctor will run some tests, give me a clean bill of health, and I’ll be back on the ice where I belong. But there’s a part of me that knows that won’t happen anytime soon.
“First off, language,” she huffs, her voice hitching slightly before she continues. “Second, the moment calls for it. You shouldn’t lie, especially not to your mother, who has been pacing this house for hours, waiting for one of you to remember she exists and deem important enough to call her.”
