Page 135 of Lighting the Lamp
More voices fire questions—about treatments, recovery, and how soon they’ll know for sure—but I don’t catch them. I can’t.
“If they confirm the damage to his heart,” Dr. Patel’s voice slices back through the noise, steady and merciless, “continuing to play hockey could be dangerous and potentially life-threatening.”
Beau’s head jerks up, his voice breaking through the tangle of sound like glass shattering. “Until…?”
The doctor meets his eyes, quiet regret etched deep into his expression. “If the diagnosis is confirmed… never.”
The room stills. It’s as if every molecule of air has been sucked out, leaving only silence and the thunder of my own pulse. The last thin thread of humor Beau had been clinging to snaps. I feel it in the way his shoulders sag, in the sudden, painful grip of his hand crushing mine. His eyes drop to where our fingers are laced, as if he stares long enough, he can pretend we’re anywhere but here. I curl my other hand over his, anchoring him with everything I have, even as I feel him folding inward, retreating into the hollow space the wordneverhas carved into him.
The others are still talking, voices overlapping, sharp with worry. Kyle’s asking something about long-term effects, Ramona’s voice breaks on the word dangerous, and Auntie Mel keeps asking what happens next, like there’s an answer anyone can give right now. But all of it sounds distorted and muffled like it’s coming from underwater.
All I can hear is the rhythm of his breathing and the fragile beep of the monitor that measures what I can’t touch. Each rise and fall of his chest is shallow, like the air itself might give up on him if I stop watching. I want to tell him it’s going to be okay, to promise him something solid to hold on to, but the words stick in my throat. They feel like lies. So, I do the only thing I can: I hold on tighter. My thumb traces slow circles over his knuckles, trying to anchor him to me when I can feel him drifting further away with every second.
And for the first time since they wheeled him through those ER doors, I let myself admit the truth clawing through my chest. I’m terrified. Not just of what the tests will show or what he might lose, but of the fact that I can already feeling him drifting to somewhere I can’t follow.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Beau
Everyone around me keeps talking. Their voices fill the room as they try to speak over each other. Everything is too loud. Too close. Too much.
“Has he seen a specialist yet?”
“What’s the next step? Surgery? Treatment?”
“Beau, what does this mean for the season?”
Questions ricochet off the walls, each one hitting too hard and fast. Momma’s voice blends into Kyle’s, Ramona’s edges with fear, and Cooper’s cuts low and steady, but it all blurs into static. The only thing sharp is Alise’s hand wrapped around mine, her thumb tracing steady circles like she can stitch me together with touch alone. She doesn’t say a word, but I don’t need her to. I can feel her eyes on me, close enough that the weight of them holds me steady when everything else is tilting sideways.
None of it sticks because none of it matters. All I can hear is the doctor from earlier:If the diagnosis is confirmed… never.It loops again and again in my mind. He isn’t saying not until next season, until I’m cleared, or until I’ve fought my way back again. He said never.
It’s not just hockey this time. It’s me. My body, the joints that lock up without warning. The fire that burns under my skin that flares higher every time I think I’ve got it under control. The way the fatigue blindsides me, no matter how much I’ve trained. If he’s right about this affecting my heart, this means forever.
The thought cinches around my chest like a strap being pulled tighter with every breath. The air won’t go down right—too shallow and fast—and my fingers tingle where they’re knotted with Alise’s.
“And if it’s his heart, he’ll—” someone begins, but I lose the rest.
“Could it be something else? Maybe they’re wrong.”
“Kyle, don’t crowd him,” Momma murmurs, but he’s already talking over her.
Suddenly, the room tilts. I blink hard, but the edges blur anyway, streaks of light ghosting across my vision. The heart monitor beeps too fast, every chirp like a hammer to my skull. The voices overlap until words dissolve into static. The static swells until it’s pressing against the inside of my ribs. Every joint feels like it’s being wound too tight. My skin is hot and clammy all at once. I can’t tell if my heart’s racing because of panic or because my body’s already starting the next flare. I can’t get ahead of it. I can’t get enough air.
“No, I’m asking because?—”
“We need to know?—”
“They have to run more tests?—”
My knee bounces under the blanket. My free hand curls into a fist as my pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything else except the faintest sound of my voice.
“Make it stop,” I whisper, my lips barely moving, my voice so soft I’m not sure anyone else can hear me. “Please… make it stop.”
Alise squeezes my hand hard as her gaze locks with mine. There’s no question, no hesitation, just understanding, and then she moves.
“Enough.” Alise’s voice slices through the noise like a blade, sharp and final. “Everybody out.”
The room goes still, but the tension spikes.
