Page 40 of Lighting the Lamp
Heads whip in our direction. Conversations down the hallway die mid-sentence, the buzz of post-game celebration replaced by stunned silence. I feel every pair of eyes land on us like someone has yanked me into a spotlight I never asked for. Heat crawls up my neck as embarrassment curls low in my gut, sour and sharp, feeding the fire already blazing in my chest. He’s making a scene. I’m part of the scene. And worst of all, I don’t even know how to fix it.
“It is,” he says again, quieter now, but still cutting deep. “When you act like I’m one more task on your goddamn to-do list. Something to manage. Like I have to schedule my pain around your burnout.”
I flinch hard. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I didn’t mean to make him feel that way, but now, under everyone’s eyes, with his grief and my guilt, I don’t know how to convince him otherwise.
The words hit harder than anything I’ve ever heard. My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself, my hand grasping at my shirt, hoping to lessen the pain from the blow of his words hitting me right in the center of my chest. Beau’s eyes widen slightly, like maybe he didn’t mean to say that. Or maybe he did. Either way, he doesn’t take it back.
“Beau, you are not a task to me. You are not a chore or a burden or some checkbox?—”
He shakes his head, the motion stiff and sharp. “Doesn’t matter. You didn’t notice I was slipping until I almost hit the ground. No one did, because no one cared.”
“That’s not fair?—”
“Life’s not fair,” he mutters, already turning.
Beau doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns and walks away, broad shoulders stiff, disappearing down the hallway like he can’t get away fast enough.
I want to run after him, to scream that he doesn’t understand, but I can’t move. Not with the way my heart feels like it’s splintering in my chest. Not with the heat of all those eyes still on me and the echo of his voice ringing in my head. I stand frozen, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. My face is on fire as the hallways come back to life, the cheers and chattering rising again like nothing happened. But for me? Everything just fell apart. And the worst part is, I’m terrified that no matter what I do now, it’s already too late.
It’s only as his figure disappears around the corner that I realize how many times he tugged at his hoodie tonight, how often he angled himself away from me, like he was shielding more than just his pride. The thought gnaws at me, sharp and insistent, but I shove it down before it can take root.
“Hey, sweetheart.” A soft voice pulls me back to the moment. It’s Nina, the wife of one of the defensemen, offering me a reassuring look and a hand on my arm. “You okay?”
The sting behind my eyes threatens to spill over, but I won’t cry. Not here. Not now. Instead, I force a tight smile. “Yeah. Just… tired. Long week.”
She nods like she understands and didn’t just witness me unraveling in the middle of a hallway like a dropped ball of yarn. “If you need anything, we’re all here, okay?”
“Thanks,” I murmur, already pulling away, aching to be alone.
As soon as I round the corner and duck into an empty corridor, the mask crumbles. My hands clench into fists as I allow the sadness to choke me for a second, but it quickly burns off, leaving only heat. And just like that, I’m marching, angry and determined, toward the exit. I don’t even fully know where I’m going, but my feet do. I’m not letting him have the last word. Not this time.
The knock is so faint I almost miss it. Just a soft tap, like someone second-guessed even being here.
I wipe my hands on my pajama pants and pull the door open, already halfway through a mental list of why someone is knocking on my door. I didn’t think the pizza would get here that quickly. Ramona? Maybe a neighbor needs something.
But it’s none of those things. It’s Beau, and the moment my eyes lock with his, everything inside me stills.
He’s barefoot on the doormat, hunched over like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. His hoodie clings to him, soaked at the collar, his curls damp with sweat. One arm cradles his side like something’s broken or close to it.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” he rasps, barely lifting his head.
He’s not. God, not even by a long shot.
“You look like shit.”
He tries to smile, but it wobbles and falls apart. “Took a weird hit at practice. No big deal.”
“Are you kidding me?” I step forward and grab his elbow before he can argue. “Why didn’t you go to the trainer or, better yet, go home and see Auntie Mel?”
He tries to shrug, but the movement hits him hard. His whole body jerks, folding over with a groan that tears out of him like it had to fight through pain just to escape.
“Beau!” I catch his arm, heart racing. “Sit down. Here. Now.”
He stumbles past me and drops onto the edge of the couch like the air’s too heavy to breathe. His hands fist the comforter as I try to look into his eyes, but he turns away from me. I kneel in front of him, brushing his sweaty curls off his forehead, my fingers shaking. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s not a fever,” he says hoarsely. “Just… pain. It comes in waves.”
