Page 34 of Lighting the Lamp
“Baby girl, you’re one itinerary away from spontaneous combustion.” Auntie Mel hums, taking a bite from her pastry.
Ramona leans in with a raised brow. “You sure you still wanna do this all by yourself? I will absolutely hire a wedding planner tomorrow.”
I wave her off. “No way. This is what besties are for. Besides, half the damn state’s gonna show up for your wedding. Someone has to keep the spreadsheets honest.”
“It’s not that many people.”
“You invited both mayors.”
“They’re friends of the family,” Auntie Mel chimes in, patting Ramona on the hand in support.
“And the entire Timberwolves staff?”
“Well, yeah. Duh.” Ramona shrugs, rolling her eyes.
“You two are ridiculous.” Auntie Mel rolls her eyes before turning her attention to the ice.
“We just want the people who care about us there for our special day.” Ramona smirks.
“So, the entire state of Oregon.”
“Exactly.”
Laughter bubbles between us, warm and familiar, but I can’t stop myself from glancing toward the bench for the first time. Beau is sitting at the end of the bench, looking completely out of place without his gear on. Instead of his usual demeanor, chirping at his teammates on the bench, he’s slouched low, with his hood pulled up over his head. Not just resting there, but pulled low, like a curtain drawn closed and like he wants to disappear.
His face is mostly hidden, shadowed by the hood and the glare of the rink lights, but I can still see the edge of his jaw, clenched tight. The muscles are ticking there like he’s chewing on something he can’t swallow. His shoulders are rounded in, arms propped on his knees, and hands slack between them. Even in that stillness, he hums with tension like a wire drawn taut enough to snap. I can feel it from the opposite side of the rink, like a storm building in the distance. The kind that hums through your teeth right before the lightning hits.
Coach Mercer paces in front of the bench, red-faced and fuming, as he storms toward Beau. He leans down and whispers something in his ear, and Beau doesn’t flinch outwardly, but the way his shoulders draw in makes it look like the words hollowed him out from the inside. He doesn’t say a word. He just sits there, ramrod straight, as Mercer turns to the team—not just the players on the ice, but everyone on the bench—and shouts, “If you girls want to skate like peewees, maybe I should start dressing somebody who can actually focus!”
There’s nothing but pure venom in every syllable. A collective gasp ripples through the levels as the crowd attempts to make sense of what just happened.
“What the hell?” Ramona hisses.
“He did not just say that,” Auntie Mel says flatly, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.
Cooper’s already moving toward the door leading to the bench, each movement deliberate. His jaw flexes as he steps through the door, standing skate to toe with Mercer.
Mercer throws his hands up like he’s the victim. “You wanna play sentimental favorites, be my guest. But don’t expect a miracle out of a team of washed-up wannabes and a starting goalie with a medical file thicker than our playbook.”
The arena murmurs again, louder this time, and a few people even boo this time, but Beau stays seated, with his hood pulled up and his head down, not even a flicker of recognition of what Coach Mercer just said. Instead, he seems to curl further into himself, trying to make himself smaller, even more invisible.
I can’t stop staring at him, jaw clenched and mouth pressed into a hard line. I can see just enough of his profile now to catch the shadows under his eyes, bruised and hollowed out from too many sleepless nights. He looks like he’s trying to disappear inside himself, and it wrecks me. I know that feeling too well, what it means to hide in plain sight. To smile through the spiral while surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.
Cooper breathes in through his nose, chest rising. His voice comes out calm, but thunderous. “That’s enough.”
Silence falls. Even from up here, I can hear the steel in his voice.
“We don’t need a miracle. All we need is each other. And we won’t find that in a coach who publicly humiliates his team instead of leads it.”
A shock wave rolls through the crowd. A few people even clap as the shrill sound of a whistle pierces through the heaviness in the air from somewhere in the lower section, signalling the start of the third period.
Mercer scoffs before storming off across the ice toward the tunnel, slamming the door behind him hard enough to shake the boards.
Cooper turns to the team, every player on the bench looking at him like he’s gravity. “We get one shift at a time. One clean pass. One smart play. We’re not done.”
A few heads nod, and one of the defensemen—Mack, I think—slaps his stick against the boards. And just like that, the Timberwolves shift forward, shoulders straightening and energy clicking back into place.
The game resets, but I don’t take my eyes off Beau. He’s still sitting in the same position, shoulders rolled forward, one hand on the back of his neck. It’s brief, barely more than a second, before Cooper leans forward and whispers something in Beau’s ear.
