Page 96 of Lighting the Lamp
“I’m sorry I experience emotions like a functioning adult.” I tug my jersey over my pads and grin into the fabric like an idiot.
“Functioning,” Cole echoes. “You brought Alise coffee three mornings in a row to Darius’s practice. I watched you wait in your car just so you could walk her in like some damn emotional support golden retriever.”
“She likes the oat milk one,” I say with a shrug. “And she always forgets to eat breakfast.”
“Christ,” Cooper mutters. “You’re whipped.”
“You’re all just mad no one kissed you and then wanted to do it again.”
The chirping doesn’t stop, but I quit listening. I tug the rest of my gear into place, letting their voices blur into the background. I lace up my skates slower than usual, fingers steady but my mind somewhere else. The locker room is the same. The guys are the same. But I’m not because lately, things feel good. Alise is softening. The team’s riding me like always. And for once, my body isn’t fighting me at every turn. I don’t feel broken for the first time in months, and that scares the hell out of me. If my body slips and things spiral again, I won’t just be letting myself down; I’ll be letting her down, too. And I don’t know if I can come back from that.
We head out to the rink as practice starts. I glide out onto the ice with that glow still burning somewhere behind my ribs. The air in the arena is crisp, cutting in the best way. The scrape of blades, the echo of a puck hitting the boards, the rhythm of drills—all of it slots into place like a song I know by heart. It feels good. It feels right. Until it doesn’t.
It starts small with a pull in my shoulders. Nothing major, just a subtle tightness like someone’s cinched my chest protector one notch too tight. I roll my neck, stretch my arms, and shrug it off. It’s probably nothing. I just slept wrong or pushed too hard in the gym earlier this week. It’s not a big deal.
But then I move into position for the next drill. My body’s a little slower than usual, and my legs don’t push as fast. My reflexes are lagging. It’s not enough for anyone else to notice, but I feel it. In my thighs and the way my breath catches deeper in my lungs than it should.
“You spacing out, old man?” Jace chirps, tapping my pad with his stick. “Or just picturing Alise in your hoodie again?”
“You’re one more chirp away from catching a puck to the face.” I huff a laugh and tap his shin with my blocker.
“That’s not a no.”
“Careful, rookie,” I say, grinning. “You’ll need a nap after I shut you out.”
The banter helps anchor me, and I make the next save count—solid glove, decent angle. Then another. And another, but each one costs me more than they should.
My muscles feel syrup-thick. The ache behind my eyes sharpens, rhythmic now, like a drumbeat out of sync. I’m sweating, but not the kind that cools you down. My skin prickles cold beneath the gear, like my body can’t figure out what temperature it wants to be. And my chest—fuck. It tightens, slow and deliberate, like something is curling inside it. Not pain or panic, just pressure like I’m being hollowed out from the inside.
I roll my shoulders. Shift my weight. Breathe in deep, hold, release.
It’s just a bad day; they happen sometimes. I’ve also had worse. I’m probably dehydrated. I haven’t been drinking water like Parker told me to. I should get on that after practice. I’ll feel ten times better if I do everything Parker and the doctor tell me. This is nothing. My fault for being hardheaded.
The coach calls for the next drill, and I get into position, trying not to notice the way my hands tremble inside my gloves. I press down harder on my stick. I need to focus. Everything is fine. It has to be fine.
Yesterday, Alise laughed and looked at me like she didn’t want to run. She let me sit close to her on the bench while we watched the kids practice. She didn’t flinch away when I reached for her hand. She let me kiss her temple when she said goodbye. I’m sick, but I am whole, just like Alise wants, so we can be together. That can’t be undone. I won’t let it be.
The puck drops, and the slapshot sails wide and smashes off the glass. I blink a second too long, trying to reset.
“You good?” Bower calls.
“Yup.” My voice is steady. It’s always steadier in gear, hidden behind pads and a cage. Lying is easier when I’m dressed to stop pucks instead of answer questions. “Just catching my breath.”
“Maybe you’re finally getting old,” Jace whoops from across the zone. “Told you he’s getting old! We should order him a walker and a tube of Tiger Balm.”
I roll my eyes and give him the finger behind my blocker, and he laughs like he won.
I hold my breath, waiting for someone to take a closer look. For someone to see the stumble in my body that I can feel but can’t quite hide. But they don’t, or at least if they do, they keep it to themselves. Either is good because I don’t want them to. If they did, I’d have to explain. I don’t know how to say I think something’s wrong when I’m not ready for the answer myself.
It’s not bad enough to stop. Not bad enough to worry about. Not bad enough to raise any alarms. But it’s there, a pressure building under my ribs, a weight pressing from the inside out like my body is keeping secrets I can’t afford to name.
I go through the rest of practice on autopilot. Save after save. They think I’m locked in and focused on practice, but I’m not. I’m coasting on instinct, letting muscle memory wear the mask while my body hums with something I don’t want to name. The ache in my chest pulses quieter now, dulled beneath adrenaline and denial, but it’s not gone.
When the final horn sounds, I head right for the locker room and peel off my gear like the tension will come off right with it. Everything’s too heavy. My jersey sticks to my back, soaked through with sweat that isn’t from exertion—it’s warning. A cold, clammy kind of wrong that clings to my skin.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Repeat.
The world doesn’t spin. My legs hold steady. That should feel like victory, but it only gives me borrowed time.
