Page 99 of Lighting the Lamp
My shirt is stuck to my back with sweat as the nausea constantly churns like low-level waves that rise higher every time I move. And then there’s the rash I noticed early this morning in the bathroom mirror. The reflection hit me like a punch, my skin red and angry. It’s the unmistakable outline of a butterfly, stretching across the bridge of my nose and bleeding onto both cheeks. A mark I know from pamphlets and late-night Google searches I swore I’d forget.
It’s not subtle; it’s screaming to anyone who sees me that something is wrong.
I should call someone. Parker, the team doc, or even Cooper, but I can’t seem to pick up my phone. My hands won’t stop shaking long enough. So, I lie here in my swollen, aching body that feels like it belongs to someone else.
The worst part? I was fine. Just a few days ago, I was skating circles around the guys at practice, chirping at my teammates, and soaking up every small inch Alise let me in. Everything was perfect. I felt strong, practically invincible, and I was happy. I finally felt like things were falling into place, and now I’m falling apart.
It makes little sense. There was no warning sign that I’d wake up the next day and not recognize my body. It’s gotten so bad that I had to call my doctor this morning, and the words had barely left my mouth before she said, “It’s a flare-up.” I asked her how long it would last, already bracing for the answer. She said there is no telling how long it will last. Flares are unpredictable.Some last a day and others drag on for a week, but most of the time, they settle after a few days.
What does that word even mean? I need answers, a timeline of when I can get back to my life, but the word is a fucking landmine to the life I was slowly piecing back together. It lives in my chest now, pulsing with every breath I take like a soft promise with a thousand sharp edges.
If things continue like this, there will be no way for me to be between the pipes at game time, and the thought rips something inside me wide open. Because if I’m not out there, what am I? If I can’t play, who am I? If I’m still sick, how can I give Alise what she needs?
Three firm raps against the door jolt me out of my spiral, and I freeze. My heart stutters, and a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead as I wait to see who is at the door. No matter who it is, I can’t let them in. My mind races, trying to think of who might just stop by to see how I’m doing, but I come up empty. The pounding behind my eyes makes it impossible to remember anything but the pain. Another soft but persistent knock rings through my place, followed by a voice I haven’t heard in weeks but would recognize in my sleep.
“Beau?” My stomach knots, and I don’t know where to thank the powers that be or curse them for my luck. It’s not Alise, thank fuck, but it is Momma.
I push the blanket off and drag myself upright with a groan that feels like it comes from the marrow of my bones. I yank the hood over my head and stumble toward the bathroom.
“Just a second!” I call, forcing air into my lungs.
With each step, it feels like I’m walking through a battlefield. I’m dizzy, nauseated, and my legs are weak beneath me, but I make it to the sink and flick the light on. White-hot pain lances through my skull, causing me to hiss and grab the counter, eyes slamming shut. When I pry them open again, the rash is stillthere, the skin flushed and raw. I splash water on my face, hard, like it’ll scrub the sick off and make me human again. But it doesn’t. Instead, I pat my cheeks dry, head into my room to throw on a clean hoodie, and shuffle to the door. My fingers shake as I undo the chain and force a practiced smile on my face, my mask sliding firmly back into place.
I crack the door open just wide enough to see her. Her hair’s pulled back, her eyes sharp behind her glasses, but soft in a way she saves just for me.
“Hey, sweetheart.” She doesn’t even wait for me to invite her and slides past me. “Let me in.”
“Hi to you, too,” I say with a smirk that feels like broken glass.
She steps inside and zeroes in on me like a heat-seeking missile. Her gaze flicks over my slumped shoulders, the hollows under my eyes, the stiffness in my walk. “You’ve been ignoring me and your brothers. I figured I’d come see that you were still alive and kicking for myself.”
“I’m fine,” I respond instinctively. “You all worry too much.”
“You look like hell.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She cups my cheek with a hand that’s too warm, and I try to duck, but not fast enough. Her fingers pause, brows furrowing deeper. “Beau, you’re burning up.”
“I was just resting. I didn’t sleep well. Migraine.”
She doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t say anything either.
“Go lie down on the couch.”
“But—”
“That wasn’t a request,” she responds curtly, and I don’t argue.
I shuffle toward the couch and lie back down, barely resisting the urge to curl into the fetal position. My eyes follow her as she moves around my condo like she owns the place, settingher bag on the kitchen counter and pulling out things that make my throat tighten—soup, ginger ale, electrolyte packets, and a thermometer.
She walks over with the thermometer and sits beside me on the couch. “Open.”
“Mom—”
“I brought the good soup.”
I huff a quiet laugh, my ribs screaming in protest as I open my mouth. After a few minutes, the thermometer beeps, and she checks it.
