Page 153 of Lighting the Lamp
“Look at you, getting all philosophical,” Cole says, smirking as he bumps my shoulder. “Trying to sound wise now that you’re old?”
“That’s right. I am older,” I correct, giving him a look. “Respect your elders.”
“Respect is earned,” Cole fires back, grinning, the spark in his eyes daring me to argue. It’s the same spark he’s had since we were kids, the one that says he’ll always push me just to see if I’ll push back.
Cooper doesn’t miss a beat. There’s a smirk tugging at his mouth he doesn’t bother to hide, and for a second, it softens the edge of his voice. “Which you still haven’t managed with either of us. Some things never change.”
“It’s still two against one, huh? Ganging up on the middle kid,” I add, shaking my head.
“You aren’t the middle—I am.” Cole scoffs. “You’re just the grumpy one who can’t handle being out-charmed.”
“Out-charmed? I taught you half your moves.” I snort.
“And I improved them,” he shoots back.
“Debatable,” Cooper cuts in, his voice already edging into coach mode. But the almost-smile in his eyes says the same thing the banter always has—it’s our version of I love you. “Now, quit bickering before I bench both of you—yes, even you, Beau.”
I tilt my head toward him. “You’re lucky Kyle’s not here to back me up.”
“He’s too busy pretending he doesn’t care who drafts him.”
“He’d better care. Either way, Kyle’s coming home,” I say automatically, as the sticks start their pre-game staccato against the walls. “Or there will be hell to pay.”
Cooper almost smiles. “You sound like Momma.”
“Someone’s gotta keep you two in line,” I shoot back. “It’s a full-time job.”
“Guess that makes you the team mom.” Cole’s grin widens. “Should we have gotten you a bedazzled clipboard?”
“Careful,” I warn him, “or I’ll make you haul the Cup by yourself.”
“Sounds like we’re winning, then,” he says, winking. “I’ll need the workout to balance all the champagne.”
Their laughter echoes, but beneath it is something heavier, threaded through every jab and tease. We all know this is the last ride, the final game, and the jokes are our way of holding it at arm’s length for one more minute. Even the banter feels inevitable, like it’s been leading us here all along.
The tunnel narrows around us, and the noise changes, less the diffuse roar of the locker room and more a pressing thunder rolling closer with every step. It’s like the air knows what’s about to happen. Just like that, the joking dies.
Cooper’s face shifts, a calm, lethal focus taking over. Cole’s grin slides off, replaced by something sharper. My pulse evens out, everything inside me clicking into the clean, familiar rhythm of game time. Cooper doesn’t do speeches; he just stops and looks at each player one by one. They lean toward him as if they could pull courage straight out of his stare.
“Trust your read,” he says, and that’s all we need.
We step forward together, moving in sync for the first time in years, like muscle memory from years of racing each other to the car after practice. We’ve been at odds, we’ve been on opposite sides, but right now, we’re on the same team in every sense that matters.
“You gonna cry if we win?” Cole nudges me one last time.
“You gonna cry if you don’t get the first lap?”
“Guess we’ll find out.” His grin comes back, just a flash.
Then the roar of the crowd hits so loud it’s not just sound anymore; it’s something alive under my skin. The ice stretchesout ahead of us, every single thing we’ve ever chased wrapped into one sheet of white.
I take my place behind the bench with Langley. I’m not on the ice anymore, but old goalie habits die hard. My superstitions have shifted—no crease scrapes or pad taps—but the urge is still there. I check the lineup board twice. Re-tie a shoelace that doesn’t need it. Tap the same spot on the glass I’ve touched every game since January. Maybe it’s irrational, but I’m not giving the universe a single crack to slip through tonight.
Before I lock in fully, I glance into the stands. Alise is there, on her feet, hands cupped around her mouth. I can’t hear her words, but I don’t need to because they hit me in the chest all the same. I give her a small salute, and she smiles back a grin that could knock me over if I let it.
It feels inevitable, seeing her there. Like all the roads we took—every fight, break, and fragile moment—were always bending toward this. Toward her waiting for me in the crowd, and me knowing without a doubt that I belong exactly here.Then I turn to the ice. Game time.
The game is a knife fight from puck drop, fast and mean. Langley’s locked in, glove flashing as he snatches pucks out of the air like it’s nothing. They strike halfway through the first, but our top line answers before the horn.
