Page 31 of Lighting the Lamp
The hum of tape wrapping around sticks and velcro ripping fills the room. The familiar sounds echo off the concrete walls, each noise landing like a countdown. Not to puck drop, but to something so much worse. To the next look I can’t meet or the next question from a teammate I can’t answer because I don’t know myself, and it’s killing me. Each time a teammate comes to me with a hopeful look, another piece of my armor cracks. I don’t want to fall apart in front of them. Here, I need to be strong and let my teammates know everything is going to be okay. Even if that’s complete and utter bullshit.
Instead of the usual chirping that happens before our games, no one is speaking. Just curt nods and quickly muttered hellos,acknowledging each other, but everyone’s eyes remain fixed on the floor like it holds all the answers. Like maybe if we don’t look at each other, none of this is real. Fuck, how I wish that were true for all of us.
I sit at the far end of the bench in the shadows, tucked against my locker with my gear bag and half-zipped duffel tucked inside, like the room itself can forget I’m here. I pulled my hoodie over my head, my knee bouncing so hard the bench vibrates beneath me.
My skin feels too tight as I swallow hard, my throat dry from nerves. There’s a buzzing behind my eyes that I can’t blink away and a buzzing in my ears. It’s not that I want to disappear, but being here in the locker room and not suited up feels like I already have. I’m watching my team through a pane of glass. They’re suiting up for battle, and I’m stuck behind a barricade, desperate to get to them, but I can’t. The only thing I can do is sit here, wounded, useless, and silent. No matter how many times I tell myself that what is happening isn’t my fault, it still feels like it is.
Coach Mercer’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife, and everyone freezes in place.
“Four losses in six games,” he barks, pacing back and forth in front of the dry-erase board like he’s waiting for a reason to explode. “And every single one of you looks like you’re skating with your heads in the goddamn clouds.”
The room goes still except for the crackle of plastic as Jace tightens the wrap on his stick. Mackenzie and Cooper don’t even look in his direction, eyes focused on their skates as Crosby fidgets on the bench beside them. Everyone else on the team sits up slightly straighter, bracing themselves for the next barb from Coach to be directed at them specifically. But he turns and finds me, his eyes landing like a spotlight. I sit up straighter, but it doesn’t matter. I already know what’s coming.
“You know when this started?” His voice drops, slow and pointed, as he juts his finger toward me. “Right there.”
I can feel the air in the room thicken, tightening around every player like an invisible vise.
“Coach,” Bower says cautiously, “he’s not cleared. You’re the one who?—”
“I know what I did,” Coach snaps, rounding on him. “You think I wanted to take our starting goaltender off the ice during a playoff push?”
“Then—”
“No,” he holds up his hand, silencing Bower. “Let me finish.”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches, eyes fixed on a crack in the far concrete wall. If I look at him, or even blink, he’ll see it. He’ll be able to see that every word is hitting me like a freight train, knocking the wind right out of me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. In reality, his words slice cleaner than any skate blade, causing my heart to slam hard against my ribs. Each beat a dull, echoing thud in the hollow of my chest, like someone swinging a hammer in a church.
“We lost our spine when we lost our goaltender. We lost our fire when he sat his ass down on the bench and decided he was more of a mascot than a player.”
A low, uneasy murmur shifts through the room like a crowd watching a fight they didn’t mean to start. I feel every pair of eyes flick toward me, then away again like I’m some kind of bruise too tender to touch.
Jace stops stretching and straightens. “With respect, Coach, he’s on IR. We all saw the doctor’s report. He didn’t decide to sit down anywhere. You decided that for him.”
“I don’t give a fuck about reports. I did it because I was told he wasn’t fit to play,” Mercer barks, his tone sharp as shattered glass. “And maybe I should’ve trusted my gut instead because we need grit and leadership. Because this?—”
His arm cuts through the air like an accusation, finger jabbing in my direction, like I’m some goddamn caution sign that people ignore until it’s too late.
“This isn’t leadership. It’s dead weight.” His eyes find mine again, mean and glinting, like he’s been waiting to say what comes next. “But maybe that was too much to expect. You and Cole are two halves of the same story. Big names. Big pressure. And when it matters, you disappear.”
The breath stalls in my throat, lodging somewhere beneath the ribs. I don’t move. Every muscle in my body locks in place, not from the shock of his words but from something more familiar and far worse, causing something inside me to crack. His words land like a punch with no wind-up or warning, but I don’t flinch. I just take it because I’ve heard it before. The weight of the Hendrix name, the shadow of following behind an older brother the world believes can do no wrong. The assumption that the rest of us are nothing but a disappointment that will never measure up to the great Cooper Hendrix.
“Don’t,” I respond, quiet, but my tone is sharp, leaving no room for disagreement.
“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” Mercer sneers. “You and your druggie brother are useless. Maybe one of you can figure your shit out fast enough to save this team, or we can kiss the Cup goodbye, along with the rest of your golden-boy legacy.”
The silence that fills the room is deafening. Even the hum of the vents feels loud now. Everyone’s watching, waiting to see how I’ll react, but everything inside me is pure chaos. Not the kind where fists fly, there’s shouting, or sticks breaking. No, this is quieter and beyond anything I’ve ever felt before. He didn’t just come after me; he came after Cole. My brother clawed his way out of a hell most people wouldn’t survive. My brother, who disappeared and hid away from his family for years, because staying invisible and broken was easier. The one who finallychose himself after years of trying to prove that he was good enough, probably better than all of us.
Now, Mercer just tosses his name out like he’s garbage. That his battle against addiction is a weakness and not a war you have to fight every goddamn day. My stomach twists, acid biting the back of my throat, as the rage and guilt tangle so fast I can’t tell one from the other. We left Cole to fight his battles alone, but he came back. He’s putting in the work, and Coach knows that.
So when he says I’m just like him? It’s not just a cheap shot; it’s a fucking lie. I’m not as strong as Cole. I didn’t walk away when things started getting bad. I checked out and put on a smiling face, trying to be everything for everyone, and somehow, that isn’t enough. I’m not enough, not for Coach or this team.
“Don’t you ever say that shit again.” Cooper’s voice cracks through the room like a shot.
Coach Mercer freezes mid-step, just shy of the door, as Cooper pushes to his feet and crosses his arms over his chest.
“You don’t get to drag his name through the dirt because you’re pissed Beau didn’t bounce back fast enough for you.” His jaw tightens hard enough to snap. “If you’d been paying closer attention as a coach, you’d have known he was struggling. That he was running himself ragged for this team. For you. For me.”
“Coop—” I start, but he shakes his head, cutting me off.
