Page 59 of Lighting the Lamp
My phone has stayed dark. No calls, texts, or even one of Alise’s weird, half-sarcastic emojis she sends when she doesn’t have the words. She hasn’t said a damn thing. I told Alise I wouldn’t chase her, that I’d give her time and space. That I’d wait for her to be ready. I know a part of me believed it would be easy, that it would only be a few days. That I’d only have to wait for her to cool off, process the change in our relationship, and then realize I wasn’t bluffing when I said I was serious. But there was no way in hell I expected this.
I didn’t expect every minute to feel like a year or to wake up every morning hoping today would be the day and going to sleep every night with that same hope crushed under the weight of silence. It’s been over a week, and the longer her silence drags on, the harder it gets to breathe because it’s not just anyone ignoring me—it’s Alise.
The one person who’s always known how to find me when I get lost in my head.
The one who’s seen every jagged piece of me and never once flinched. The one who’s held me through every storm, even when she was soaking wet and shivering, too. She’s home—my anchor, my compass, my soft place to land—and now she’s gone quiet.
That silence slices me open from the inside out, churning in my gut like broken glass and twisting tighter every time my phone buzzes and it’s not her. I sit here like a goddamn ghost, watching the game I can’t play and aching for the girl I can’t reach. The world keeps moving, but I’m stuck in place, unraveling at the edges while everything I care about slips further and further away. The wire from the CAM shifts undermy hoodie as I hunch forward, and it’s like the machine is cataloging every second of my unraveling.
“How the hell am I supposed to pretend everything’s fine,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the scrape of blades on ice, “when every part of me is screaming that it’s not?”
The glass in front of me fogs slightly with my breath, blurred at the edges where my forehead leans against it. My knee aches, and my hip throbs, but it’s nothing compared to the knot behind my ribs, pulsing with every sharp turn as I watch my teammates skate across the rink.
I hear the wood of the bench creak beside me, but I don’t have to look to know who it is. I know that effortless power, the quiet, steady rhythm that used to be mine, but somehow has disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Instinct kicks in before I can stop it, and I tug my hoodie down, shifting forward just enough that the lump of the CAM under my shirt isn’t obvious. The damn thing feels like a spotlight no one else can see, and the last thing I need is Cole asking questions I’m not ready to answer.
“Bro.” Cole exhales slowly, not wanting to break whatever fragile thing I’m barely holding together. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to get your shit together.”
Cole technically shouldn’t even be on the ice with the team. On paper, he’s on the IR list with me, but that’s not completely the truth. Yes, Cole has a bum shoulder, but that’s not the reason he isn’t skating with the team this season. One is our absent coach, who hasn’t shown his face in the locker room since his tantrum at last week’s game, and the other is one of his own making.
When Cooper asked him to come skate with us sometime this week, I thought he was just being nice. I never expected Cooper to follow up on it or to have Cole come. They fed me some bullshit about it being therapeutic for Cole, allowing him to testout his shoulder on the ice, and that it would be good for team morale. All three Hendrix brothers on the ice together, a united front, a shining beacon for all of those who came after us, and some other nonsense.
But that’s the fucking problem. I’m not on the ice. I’m here on this goddamn bench. It feels like someone’s pressing a fist into my sternum every time Cole touches the puck. He moves as if he’s never left the game. Like his body has never betrayed him. Like he doesn’t wake up wondering if today is the day his shoulder gives out for good.
A part of me’s glad to see Cole back on the ice. He’s still got that fire in his stride, the unshakable confidence that makes defensemen twitchy and coaches trust him with the last shift. But there is another part of me that’s jealous as fuck. He’s out there—sweating, skating, alive—and I’m stuck here like a ghost in my own skin. A cautionary tale wrapped in tape and ice packs. My helmet gathers dust in the locker room. My jersey hangs limp and forgotten. And the worst part? No one misses me.
“Do you really think you should be the one to give someone advice about getting their shit together?” I snap, instantly regretting the words that come out of my mouth. “Fuck, Cole. I’m?—”
“It’s fine. What you said is true. I’m the last person who should give anyone life advice, but I’m also probably the only person in this entire arena that understands that look in your eyes.”
He leans closer, and I shift slightly, tugging at the hem of my hoodie like the motion is casual. My skin prickles where the monitor clings to me, adhesive pulling every time I move. I know he’s not looking for it, but I can’t shake the paranoia that somehow he’ll see right through me.
Cole has been fighting his own demons for years, pushing through the pain and fighting with everything he has to keep hishead above water. He was in the same spot as I am at the end of last season, probably worse, if I’m being honest. Traded to a rival team with his two older brothers he hated and was also on the injured reserve. It’s no wonder he looked for something to take the edge off, to help him make it through the day, to process everything that he’s shoved down for so long.
“You’re spiraling,” Cole says, voice low and even, like he’s seen me do this before and knows exactly how deep it goes.
“Thanks for the update,” I mutter.
“I’ve been there, you know. When I got suspended. When I got hurt. When everything with Dad happened. The kind of silence that eats you from the inside out.” He leans forward, forearms resting on his thighs. “You think that this is it. There’s no way you can take another step, another breath, if you can’t be on this ice with your teammates. Trust me, big brother, you are wrong.”
“I just don’t know how to get past it. What if this is a forever thing? Am I destined to sit on the sidelines while you, Cooper, and Kyle continue living the dream?”
“Yes. If that has to happen for you to grow old and get on our damn nerves.” Cole turns toward me, his eyes full of emotion. “You are more important than all of this, Beau. Just you. Not the trophies or the ‘Hendrix dynasty.’ You being here with us is what’s important.”
“I know, but?—”
“No. No buts.” Cole exhales through his nose, watching the ice. “Not playing hockey is not the end of the world, but I know it feels like it. And I know this: What you’re feeling right now is about a hell of a lot more than just missing the ice.”
“Nice segue, brother.” I scoff, dragging a palm over my face.
“Therapy’s finally paying off.” He cracks a wry half smile, but it doesn’t last. “You think if you sit still long enough, she’ll walk through the door. Your phone will buzz, the silence will break,and everything will slot back into place like none of this ever happened.”
“You’re not helping.” My throat tightens, jaw locking so hard it hurts.
“I’m not trying to.” He shrugs, eyes flicking over the ice like he’s looking for answers in the grooves his blades left behind. “I’m just saying… you’re not the only one who’s ever lost something you thought would always be there.”
“She’s not gone.”
