Page 27 of Lighting the Lamp
“That’s how all the Hendrix men communicate: sarcasm, hockey, and homemade barbecue. And when the stakes arehigh? They clam up tighter than a church lady’s purse.” She snorts. “Talking means admitting something’s wrong. And if something’s wrong, he might have to sit out. And if he has to sit out, he might have to look in the mirror and ask himself who he is without hockey.”
“He won’t even look me in the eye when I ask how he’s feeling.” I sigh loudly, clutching the phone tighter to my ear. “I just want him to stop pretending he’s bulletproof.”
“I know you do, Alise. That’s why I called you and not him.” Her voice softens the way it always does when she senses I’m near the edge. “You’ve been looking out for Beau for a while now, but don’t let that turn you into his emotional EMT. You’re allowed to let go of the stretcher sometimes.”
I stare down at the ink smeared across the corner of my notes, where my hand had been trembling earlier. “He scared me.”
“He scared me, too.” A safe silence stretches between us before she continues. “You need anything? Hot meal? Nap? Jesus?”
I laugh, and it comes out watery. “Mostly carbs and maybe a hug. A new nervous system, if you’ve got one lying around.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m fresh out. But I can make a mean pot of mac and cheese and threaten your man-child with bodily harm if he doesn’t call his mama before heading to the game.”
“You want me to put it in writing?” The words break on a shaky chuckle.
“No, I want him to call me, or I’m calling Cooper. We both know none of us wants to get him involved if we don’t have to.”
“That’s a low blow, Auntie Mel, but I’ll pass along the threat.”
“Good. And you take care of yourself. You’ve got that tired edge in your voice again—the one that says you’ve been running on caffeine and concern for three days straight.”
I swallow, throat thick. “I’m okay.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m Taylor Swift. Eat something that grew out of the ground, and get some sleep.”
“I love you, Auntie Mel.”
“Love you more. Tell that boy I said he’s not invincible, and neither are you.”
The call ends, but her words stay lodged under my skin like a splinter I can’t quite reach.
Beau slides to a stop beside Ford, tapping his stick on the ice as he mimics the correct way to get a slap shot. Ford says something, causing Beau to laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He’s out there pretending as if nothing ever happened. Like his body didn’t betray him and his entire world didn’t crack open a little over a month ago. He won’t talk about it; he just keeps showing up with that stubborn look on his face, skating like denial can outrun reality and silence can patch over the damage. So, I’ll do what I always do. I keep things running at the rink while also keeping an eye on him. Be the office manager with a desk full of overdue invoices, practice rosters, and a heart that hasn’t stopped pounding since the moment I found out he collapsed on the ice.
I tuck my phone into my pocket, forcing my legs to move. My stomach does that thing again, twisting and warning me that something’s still not right. Technically, I’m here to check on inventory in the med room and finish up payroll for this week, but everyone knows what I’m really still doing here.
The chill of the rink hits me as I slide my headphones over my ears, step through the side door, and sit on the bench. The air curls under my skin like it’s trying to remind me what cold really feels like. The sharp scent of ice and rubber and sweat rushes up to meet me.
The boys are already moving through passing drills, their blades carving smooth arcs into the surface as other parents watch from the stands. I glance up and catch sight of Ramonaperched up in the stands, Ford’s mom beside her with a travel mug the size of her head. And then there he is: Beau Hendrix. Not in the net or suited up, but watching.
He stands with his arms crossed near the corner of the bench, one glove still in his hand, shoulders squared like he belongs exactly where he is. But there’s a tension in him that doesn’t match the ease he’s trying to project. His weight shifts off his left leg before going back again, like he’s testing his weight, or is he hiding something?
His jaw flexes when Ford misses a clean pass from Darius, and again when one of the newer players skates too wide on a turn. It’s not frustration, but something deeper. I know every part of him wants to be out there, showing them how it’s done. Proving to them and everyone else that he’s still one of the best goaltenders in the league, but he can’t.
His hands curl into fists and release: one, two, three times. I know that look on his face. It’s the same one he wore when he was fifteen and was sidelined with a busted ankle, trying not to cry in the locker room while pretending he didn’t care. The same look he had in the hospital when he finally let himself fall apart.
“Hey,” I call, stepping up beside him. “Try not to give yourself an aneurysm just from glaring.”
“I’m not glaring. I’m observing.” He glances at me, the corner of his mouth tilting up.
“Observing like your brain’s already out there on the ice without you?”
Beau stands there, arms crossed, observing the drill with the same unshakeable focus he’s always had. But I can see the shift in his stance—the quiet strain in the set of his shoulders, the stiffness he’s trying to hide in the way he balances his weight. Watching him like this makes my chest feel too tight.
“Jealousy’s a powerful motivator.” He blows the whistle loudly, and all the boys freeze, waiting for his instructions. “Go grab some water. We’ll work on some shooting drills next.”
He barely finishes the sentence before one of the kids pipes up, all hopeful grin and messy hair. “Coach, are you gonna get in the net?”
