Page 3 of Lighting the Lamp
“Here comes the Yetis offense on the forecheck—a two-on-one developing fast!”
My pads are heavier than they should be, but I manage to get my body to cooperate and square up, blinking against the white glare off the glass, and drop. My knees scream as the pain intensifies exponentially; all my joints feel like someone isdriving a nail into my bones. My eyes track the puck as it zips out in front of me, a clean pass as I ready myself for the first shot. It comes in hard and fast from the far side, but I swing my blocker up and catch it on the edge. It ricochets away with a dullthunk, but it doesn’t clear far enough.
“Hendrix manages to wave off the first shot with his blocker, but Calgary is right there to clean up the garbage.”
Reinhart comes in hot for the rebound, firing toward the opposite side of the net. My groin strains as I slide across the ice, barely making it in time to stop the puck from hitting the back of the net. It ricochets off my leg pad, wide and to the left.
“What a save by Hendrix! He manages to deflect the second shot with his pads, causing everyone to scramble inside the crease?—”
The puck’s loose in the paint. Every available body is crashing around me, trying desperately to stop the puck from going in, while another set of sticks is trying to get it in. My vision blurs as I fight to remain focused before the puck breaks free. I move again on instinct, lunging forward, glove splayed like a trap. My chest hits the ice hard enough to rattle my teeth as I barely manage to secure the puck beneath me.
“Another amazing save by Hendrix! That will allow the Timberwolves to maintain their one-goal lead.”
The crowd roars its disapproval as boos rain from the stands, but I don’t move. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. Everything’s too loud. The whistle, the voices, my pulse thrumming in my ears like a college drumline at halftime. I can feel my hand shaking inside my blocker, tremors I can’t seem to stop, no matter how hard I try. My fingers feel thick and uncoordinated, like I’m wearing someone else’s skin. Sweat slides down my spine, cold and slick beneath the pads.
A sharp sting flares in my cheek where I must’ve bitten down. I can taste it in the back of my throat now, coppery andraw, like licking a rusty nail.It curls around my tongue, bitter and metallic tasting just like failure, and for the first time, I’m terrified of what’s happening. My body is betraying me, and not only is there nothing I can do about it, but I have no idea how to stop it from happening.
“But Hendrix is still down in the crease. I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with him,” the announcer says, their voices laced with concern, moments before the horn sounds.
I barely register it. It sounds muted, like I’m underwater. I can hear someone speaking to me, their words garbled, but I manage to make out a few words asking me if I’m all right. I throw up a thumbs-up without lifting my head, every joint protesting even that much. I’ve never been pulled mid-game in my career. Not once, but right now, I can barely feel my fingertips. My heart is beating like it’s outrunning something I haven’t named yet. And I’m not sure I’ve got another period in me.
By sheer will, I manage to climb slowly off the ice and glide toward the tunnel. I keep my head low; every step feels as if someone is skinning me alive. The sharp edges of the imaginary knife scrape every scrap of skin and muscle from my bones. My thighs ache deep in the muscle, not sore, but inflamed. Knees are tight, and my ankles are even stiffer than at the start of the game, but I bear it all with a forced smile on my face.
“Great save, Hendrix,” some random rink employee says as I stroll by with a nod, unable to even form a response. Luckily, they weren’t looking for one.
A film of sweat clings to my skin like a fever I haven’t admitted yet. I yank my mask off, and the world blurs sideways for a second. Not enough for me to stop moving, but enough to make me pause before pushing open the door and heading into the locker room.
The usually boisterous room is quiet. Too quiet. No one is cracking jokes and chirping at each other. The only sounds are the hum of the air vents and the softthunk-thunkof gloves hitting floors.
I attempt to peel off my pads like they’re welded on. My fingers shake so badly that I drop one of my knee guards, but I cover it up. I glance to my left and then to my right to see if anyone noticed and catch sight of Cooper. He’s already halfway out of his gear, watching me like I’m a wild animal that might bolt if he moves too fast.
“All right,” he says, low and careful. “What the hell’s going on with you?”
I don’t look at him. “Nothing. Just a bad night.”
“You’re sweating through your damn jersey, Beau. You were shaking like a damn leaf in the crease. That’s not a ‘bad night’; that’s fucking scary.”
I sit down slowly. My hips groan under my weight as I lean forward, place my elbows on my knees, and breathe in sharply.
“It’s nothing.”
“You always look this pale when there’s nothing wrong?” he snaps back, ripping off the rest of his gear and tossing it on the floor.
“You always this nosy?”
“Don’t do that. This is not the time for you to crack jokes to worm your way out of having this conversation.”
“I’m not?—”
“You flinched on that second rebound. Youneverflinch.”
I meet his eyes. My brother’s face is pinched, concern carved deep into the lines above his brow. Not angry, just rattled, which is so much worse. The last thing I ever want to do is worry anyone, especially not Cooper. I’m supposed to be the solid brother, the person no one worries about. I guess I can add this to the list of my failures for tonight.
“I’ve been tired,” I admit, needing to tell him something before his head explodes from the stress. “Nothing a few extra hours of sleep and some painkillers can’t fix.”
“Pain killers? You’re in pain? How much?”
Fuck.That did it. I need to figure out a way to calm Cooper down before he has a heart attack, or worse, convinces Coach to bench me for the third period.
