Page 74 of Lighting the Lamp
I’ll keep showing up and pushing through it because the team needs me. We’re in the middle of the season, Coach Mercer is more than likely on his way out, and Cooper is burning the candle at both ends. The last thing anyone needs is for me to fall apart.
Alise asked me for space. I already scared the shit out of her once, needing more from her than she knew how to give, leaning on her so hard it was too much to face. The flicker of panic in her eyes made her pull away from me, and I never want to see it again. She needs me to love her when I’m whole, and I’ll never be that way again. I can’t tell her, not until I can convince her that my love is more than out of necessity.
I’ll bury this deep inside, beneath the bruises and banter, the version of me everyone still believes. I have to because there is no other option. If I let anyone see how close I am to breaking, I might not be able to put myself back together again, and I can’t afford to be fragile. Not when everything that matters is still within reach. Even if it means pretending I’m not bleeding under the armor. Even if it means I might lose the one person who’d hold me if I let her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Beau
Igrip the wheel, straighten my spine, and drive away like I’m not falling apart. I don’t drive home or anywhere in particular. I just keep moving, needing to stay in motion long enough so that none of it will catch me. Not the wordlupus. Not the way Dr. Conway saidchroniclike it was a weight I’d learn to carry. Not the ache in my chest that’s got nothing to do with my body and everything to do with the door Alise didn’t open.
I keep driving past Momma’s house. Past Alise’s favorite coffee shop. Past the corner where I almost kissed her that one time, shifting to press my lips to her forehead instead, hoping she couldn’t feel my heart trying to beat out of my chest.
My phone buzzes once on the seat beside me, but I don’t check it. If it’s Alise, I won’t be able to lie. She’ll know the minute I open my mouth that something is wrong. I just need to practice hiding this, burying this secret deep inside so that even I don’t believe it is true. Then I can talk to her, show up for her as I promised. If it’s not Alise, I can’t do that to someone else either. It’s the perfect damned if I do, damned if I don’t situation, making it even easier to ignore the call as I pull into the arena’s players-only entrance.
I tell myself I’m fine and this is exactly where I need to be right now. That I just need to move around and be useful, using this time to get used to my new normal. The doctor never said I couldn’t play hockey again, so I need to get myself back into playing condition. To be ready to hop back on the ice the minute the team needs me.
The parking lot is half-full, practice already in motion. I throw the truck in park and sit there a beat too long, staring through the windshield like it might give me something—clarity, numbness, an out. It doesn’t.
I pull up my hood and climb out of my truck, grabbing the bag I keep in the back just in case. I walk through the rear entrance like nothing’s changed, and I didn’t just walk out of a clinic with my entire life redefined and repackaged in a paper pamphlet I still haven’t opened. The Timberwolves’ logo on the locker room door greets me like it always does, but today, it feels heavier. The eyes of our mascot look down on me as if it knows I’m lying, but I ignore it and swipe my keycard. I walk into the locker room, head held high, like I belong there. Because I do. If I’m going to hold it together, this is where I do it.
The locker room is loud and blessedly normal. It smells of sweat, menthol, and wet gear, which is both comforting and gross in the way only a hockey locker room can be. Sticks thud against stalls as a couple of my teammates argue about music. It’s beautiful, distracting chaos.
“Look what the goalie dragged in,” Tyree calls from across the room, grinning like he hasn’t noticed I’m two seconds from cracking.
He’s already half in gear, tape in hand, and that smug smirk loaded and ready as if he’s been waiting for someone to verbally spar with. Tyree Jackson is our second-line right wing and part-time menace who moves through the world like everything’s a little funny, especially when it shouldn’t be.
Built like he was born to bulldoze people into the boards, he’s all shoulders and thick forearms wrapped in pre-wrap, a permanent layer of sweat glistening on his copper-brown skin. He has cropped curls, but one rebellious twist sticks up like it’s flipping off the laws of gravity, and honestly, yeah, that checks out. His smile is crooked and lethal, one brow permanently arched like he’s forever skeptical of your life choices, including mine.
“You look like shit, man.”
His voice is loud enough to cut through the chaos, cocky enough to pass as teasing, but there’s a flicker behind his eyes, like he’s clocked something deeper and doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping my bag onto the bench like it weighs more than it should. “Great to be here.”
He squints, one brow arched like he’s mentally adding things up. “You sleep?”
“No.”
“You eat?”
I shake my head, and he exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.
“You gonna puke?”
“Probably.”
“Cool. I’ll keep a safe radius. I’ve already had enough trauma for the week.”
I manage a ghost of a smile; it cracks at the corners before it ever lands. Tyree doesn’t press; he keeps talking about protein bar thefts, locker room nonsense, and someone’s god-awful taste in music. It’s everything I need and nothing I can say thank you for because his voice fills the cracks before the cold can settle in, and I know if he stops, I’ll shatter.
I sit down and start suiting up, slow and methodical, like I’m wading through molasses. Every strap feels too tight. Everypad digs in wrong. My body doesn’t fit right inside the armor I’ve worn for years, but it’s too heavy now. My hands won’t stop trembling. My joints ache with a dull, persistent throb. My hips, my knees, my shoulders are all screaming like I’ve been through a war and just forgot about it until now, but no one notices.
I flex my fingers inside my gloves, stretching and breathing through the pain, before sliding on my helmet, pulling the mask down, and heading toward the rink. It’s showtime.
I step onto the ice, and for half a second, it almost feels normal. The air bites cold against my skin. The familiar chill seeps through my gear, grounding me. The sharp hiss of blades and the thunk of pucks echo across the rink. The rhythm of it settles somewhere in my chest like a heartbeat I can follow.
I fall into drills like it’s nothing, tapping the current goaltender on the shoulder and letting him know there is a shift change. He doesn’t question it, just gives me a pat on the shoulder and moves toward the bench. I ready myself for the first shot, bracing for the pain that I know is coming, but there is none.
