Page 5 of Lighting the Lamp
I manage a crooked smirk, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Guess it runs in the family.”
Chapter Two
Beau
The team managed to scrape by with another one in the win column, but it was a tough one for sure. I should feel relieved. Hell, even a bit of satisfaction for finishing the entire game without passing out, but I feel like I’m unraveling inside my skin.
3–1 is a solid finish that we can be proud of. The Yetis are a great team that will give us a run for the Cup this season. Our defense held, and I even managed to make a few saves that counted for something. The downside is that I literally can’t remember half of the third period.
I sagged through the final five minutes as if my body were operating on instinct. My legs were screaming every time I dropped, heat pooling behind my knees, and my head pounded with each spotlight glare. But I managed to keep it together. While the rest of the team was celebrating in the locker room, I made a beeline for the shower. I made quick work of washing off the stink before grabbing my gear and heading straight for the team bus, only narrowly avoiding Coach’s worried glances.
There’s no doubt in my mind that if he had asked if I was okay, I never could’ve lied my way out of how horrible I look. My skin is so pale I could pass for a ghost; my eyes are bloodshotwith deep purple bags beneath them. I look the furthest from okay as possible. Anyone with eyes could tell I’m not okay.
I climb onto the team bus and find a seat, tucking myself into the corner and pulling my hood over my head. I shut my eyes, hoping to take a nap, but my body wouldn’t let me rest. My joints are stiff, head is buzzing with the same ringing in my ear from earlier. I take shallow breaths unless completely necessary, willing myself to remain as still as possible.
It doesn’t take long for the rest of the team to come shuffling onto the bus and find their seats. The bus ride to the airport is uneventful, nothing but music playing softly through the speakers, the low hum of exhaustion, and too many sideways glances.
The ride feels longer than the game, but I manage to avoid any probing questions from my teammates before making my way toward the plane. I slowly climb the jet stairs. Every step up the fuselage feels like a negotiation. I just need to keep moving, not letting anyone know how bad I’m really feeling.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding the moment I slide into the window seat near the back—row seventeen, my usual—and shove my duffel under the seat before pulling my hoodie back up over my head. Almost invisible to anyone, until someone shuts the overhead bin beside me with more force than necessary.
“Yo, Hendrix,” Mackenzie says, dropping into the row across the aisle from me. “You good?”
I glance up, just enough to take him in. Mack’s only been on the team for a few years, but he fits in like he was born in the locker room. Easygoing, steady, and always ready to throw down when things get heated. He’s got that bruiser build, thick through the chest and shoulders, and probably six-foot-nothing in his socks. The guy looks like he wrestles bears for fun and wins. His flannel shirt stretches across his broad chest, sleevespushed up over his forearms like he just came in from chopping wood. With that slightly crooked nose and dark hair falling into sharp green eyes, he could be the cover model for a lumberjack romance novel—if the lumberjack also broke people’s noses for a living.
I shift in my seat, forcing a shrug and fixing my gaze on the tray table like it’s got all the answers. “Fine.”
“Looked like you were skating underwater out there.”
“Altitude,” I mutter, keeping my voice dry.
Mack’s brow lifts slightly in confusion. “We play in Denver next week. Are you gonna be okay?”
I give a noncommittal grunt and keep my mouth shut. I don’t want anyone to jump to the wrong conclusions and I get sidelined based on rumors or guesses. I just need to get back to Portland and get checked out by Parker like I promised Cooper. Then maybe they’ll all get off my back.
I was hoping to change the subject, but Bower leans into the aisle behind Mack’s seat, his mop of curls flopping forward. “Dude, you sounded like a goddamn freight train after that second-period scramble.”
“It was a hard push,” I say, trying to keep it light.
“You make hard pushes all the time, but that one sounded like it came with a built-in death rattle.”
A few chuckles ripple through the row, but they’re not mean or mocking. They sound worried. I hate that I’m the one worrying everyone, feeling like they’re watching me too closely and risking that they’ll see more than I intend.
I turn toward him and force a smile. “Just tired.”
That gets a nod from Mack, but he doesn’t look away immediately. His eyes stay locked on me, steady and sharp, like he’s weighing the truth against what I’ve just said.
I shift again and reach for my headphones, hoping it’ll end the conversation, but even as I settle back against the headrest,the guilt twists tight in my gut. I shouldn’t have to lie to them, but what other choice do I have? If anyone knows how shitty I’m feeling, they’ll tell Coach, and I’ll be off the ice. And right now, being out there—no matter how much it hurts—is the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
I slip my headphones on and lean my head back, eyes shut, pretending I’m anywhere but under the microscope of the entire team. Inhaling deeply, I focus on the hum of the engines, the rustling of gear bags being stowed, and the low chatter of teammates. It’s all background noise. I just need thirty minutes of quiet. Of not being the guy everyone’s watching like he’s about to keel over, but only two minutes pass before someone slides into the empty seat beside me. It would’ve been too much to ask for it to be one of my teammates, or even Cooper. I’m just lucky that it’s Parker and not Coach.
“Hey,” he says casually, but his voice has that calm, clinical edge I’ve learned to associate with bad news and injury reports.
I don’t even bother opening my eyes before responding, knowing that anything he has to say to me right now won’t be good.
“Hey.”
I can hear the thunk of what sounds like a water bottle tapping against his knee, but I don’t open my eyes.
