Page 118 of Lighting the Lamp
“Lost?” he asks, voice threaded with humor, like he already knows the answer.
“Just, uh, looking for someone.”
His eyes flick briefly to the headphones looped around my neck. “You always wear those,” he says, not unkindly, more curious than anything. “Been wondering why.”
“They help when the noise gets to be too much,” I answer simply, my fingers brushing the padded ear cup. It’s as much as I’m willing to offer, and it seems to be enough for him because he just nods and grins wider.
He nods toward the number stretched across my chest, grin widening. “Bold choice, advertising your loyalties in this hallway.” His eyebrows shoot up like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face.
Before I can stop him, he slings one massive arm around my shoulders, palm spanning nearly the entire width of my upper arm, and steers me forward. “Well then, let’s not keep your man waiting.”
“My—wait,” I respond, my brain short-circuiting slightly, but Bower is already walking me toward the locker room door.
I can barely keep up with his long strides, half-jogging to match his pace. My protests fall uselessly into the charged air that always hangs around this close to the ice. He pushes the door open with his free hand—low laughter, snippets of conversation, and the dull clatter of gear being tossed into bins echo inside.
“Hey, boys!” Bower’s voice booms over everything, and every head turns. “Hendrix, your girlfriend’s here!”
Their reaction is immediate. A chorus ofoohsand whistles bounces off the cinderblock walls, someone lets out a dramatic wolf howl, and another pounds his palm against a locker in mock applause. I freeze just inside the doorway, and heat floods my cheeks so fast it feels like someone dunked me in boiling water.
“Oh, my God! No—” I rush out, looking straight at Beau.
His eyes lock on me from across the room, scanning my form and committing it to memory. His dirty blonde hair is damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and the slow curl of his mouth tells me he’s enjoying this way too much.
“I didn’t—” I stumble over my words, trying to make them reach him before the teasing does. “I didn’t tell him that. I swear!”
Beau leans back against his stall like he’s got all the time in the world, one brow lifting in lazy amusement.
“You mean you’renotmy girlfriend?” he asks, the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Damn. Guess I’ll have to return the flowers I ordered.”
The room erupts into a chorus of shouts and groans before someone hollers, “Smooth, Hendrix!”
My stomach does a dangerous flip, caught between embarrassment and something warmer I don’t want to name, and Beau just keeps looking at me like I’m the only person in the room. He doesn’t look away, not once, like the whistles and laughter of his teammates are just static. His gaze holds me in place, daring me to move. My pulse kicks hard, each beat echoing in my ears. I can feel the burn creeping down my neck, pooling low in my stomach. My fingers tighten in the jersey hem until the fabric bites into my skin, grounding me the only way I can manage.
“Careful, Beau,” a voice calls from somewhere to my left. “You’re gonna make us all look bad!”
“Pretty sure he already did, lover boy,” another chimes in before I can recover.
The noise spikes, ricocheting off the lockers, but Beau doesn’t so much as glance away from me. His eyes, locked and steady, cut right through the noise.
“Seriously,” someone else shouts, “at least give her a tour before you propose.”
The comment earns a round of oohs and a mocking, drawn-out “Saaaay yes” from another corner of the room.
I swallow hard, my throat tight, heat prickling behind my ears. My brain is begging me to step back, to break eye contact, to do something, but my feet don’t move. Beau’s smirk deepens slightly, the barest flicker of something warmer sliding into his gaze like he’s perfectly aware of the show they’re putting on, and he’s in no rush to end it. For a second, I forget the room is full ofpeople. It’s just him, me, and everything we haven’t said out loud hanging in the space between us.
He pushes up from the bench with an unhurried grace that makes my stomach dip. The shift in the room is immediate; a ripple ofoh, this is about to get goodruns through the guys like a current. Beau takes his time crossing the floor, every step purposeful, his gaze locked on me like there’s nothing else worth looking at. My pulse hammers everywhere. In my throat, my wrists, the tips of my fingers still twisting the hem of the jersey like it’s the only thing holding me together.
“Go get her, Hendrix!” someone calls from down the row, laughter chasing the words. “Bet she’s here to give you your good luck kiss.”
That earns a wave of whistles and mock howls, but Beau doesn’t glance away. He’s close enough now that I can see the sheen of focus in his eyes and smell the faint scent of his body wash mixing with the sharper tang of fresh tape and clean ice drifting in from the tunnel.
When he stops in front of me, the rest of the room might as well disappear, except it doesn’t because the wall of sound I can’t hide from keeps pounding around us.
“Hi,” he says, low enough that it’s just for me.
“Hi.” My throat tightens, but I manage to get the word out.
“Are we in a rom-com right now?” From somewhere on our right, someone groans loudly. “Do I need to cue the music?”
