Page 37 of Lighting the Lamp
I only nod my head, caught between wanting to hide away from everyone and making sure Momma and Alise aren’ttooworried about me because no matter what, I know those two are worrying.
The energy in the locker room has faded to a low buzz now that everyone has gone out to the press area, to their families, or disappeared to celebrate tonight’s win. Good, because I can’t stomach any more congratulations tonight. Not when it feels like my body’s short-circuiting from the inside out.
I sat in the same spot on the bench all night, tucked into the far corner, half in shadow. I never even touched the ice, but it feels like I went through every shift with them. Every blocked shot, every failed clear, every breathless second of the team’s last-minute comeback. I was there, but not in it, just a ghost on the bench.
I peel off my hoodie, the fabric sticking to my skin, which is damp with sweat I didn’t earn. The adhesive patch of the cardiac monitor tugs with it, pulling at the tender spot beneath my collarbone. I bite back a curse as the edge catches and then settles again, cool plastic pressed flat against skin that already feels raw. For a second, I glance around, half-expecting someone to notice the outline beneath my shirt. No one does, but the paranoia sticks like a shadow.
I swipe a towel across the back of my neck. The movement pulls at something deep in my shoulder—sharp, hot, fleeting—and I grit my teeth through it. My skin’s cold and clammy, like I’ve just come down with something, and my muscles don’t feel like mine. Everything is tight and heavy, like I’m walking through syrup. Even the simple act of breathing has weight to it. And the worst part isn’t the pain itself; it’s the warning before it hits. The low, steady thrum crawling behind my joints andpulsing in my chest, the signal that something worse is coming. I’ve been here before. This is what my body feels like when it’s about to betray me.
I rest my arms on my knees and bow my head, eyes closed long enough to rebuild the walls around me that keep the pain from showing on my face every time I move. The walls keep everyone on the outside, never knowing whether I’m all right, because that’s the way it needs to be. If anyone knew how bad it’s getting—how much I’ve been hiding—they’d start looking at me differently. Hell, I’m looking at myself differently.
The monitor shifts when I reach down and grab my hoodie, the edges tugging against skin slick with sweat as I pull it back over my head with trembling fingers. I flex my hands and shake them out before ensuring everything is the way it should be. My armor is firmly in place, the hoodie hiding the hard outline of the device from curious eyes. But I move too fast, and pain flares behind my ribs, sharp enough to steal my breath. I hold still, counting to five with my eyes squeezed shut until the worst of it passes.
Then I press a fist to my sternum and rub gently, feeling the hard outline of the patch beneath my palm as I try to ease the tight, fluttering pressure I’ve felt in my chest since the second period. It’s not exertion or stress, but something else, and I know it. The doctor hinted at there being something seriously wrong, but I don’t want to believe it yet. Not until I know for sure.
I inhale deeply before forcing myself to smile and heading for the locker room door. Momma and Alise are probably smiling, waiting for me to come out with jokes about the win. To pretend I wasn’t a statue on the bench all game, and there’s nothing wrong.
I rub my face hard with both hands before raising my chin and reaching for the door, mask firmly in place just long enough to make it through the rest of the night without falling apart.
Chapter Fourteen
Alise
The Timberwolves take the game 3–2 in the last minutes, and the entire arena explodes as if someone lit a match under every seat the minute the final horn blares. Fans leap to their feet all around us in a frenzy. Someone starts a “Let’s go, Wolves!” chant while a kid near the glass presses his face flat to the plexiglass, grinning like it’s Christmas morning and Santa just waved at him.
“We needed that,” Ramona says, grabbing me and squeezing.
Beside her, Auntie Mel exhales like she’s been holding her breath all season. “Cooper needed that.”
We’re swept up in the victory tide, funneled toward the family area along with high-fives, camera flashes, and the echo of voices raised in triumph. The corridor outside the locker room pulses with energy. Staffers are laughing, reporters are shouting into mics, trying to get snippets for their respective networks. It’s loud and exciting, everything that should happen after a hard-fought win, but not for me.
Instead of joining in the fun, I hover near the edge, one foot in the party and one already backing away from it. Ramona’s chatting with one of the assistant coaches’ wives. Auntie Mel’s practically glowing, soaking up the buzz. I try to match theirenergy, but my eyes keep darting to the locker room door like it might crack open and give me answers or confirm something I’m not ready to hear.
I’ve watched many players file out of the locker room with bright smiles on their faces, but no Cooper or Beau. Sure, he sat on the bench during the game, but what if—no, I refuse to think like that. If something had happened, Cooper would’ve let us know. I know that, but what if he doesn’t know? What if Beau has gotten so good at keeping everything locked inside that no one notices when something is very wrong? I shift from foot to foot, worrying my bottom lip with my teeth, as every scenario of what’s happening behind that door filters through my mind.
“He’s okay,” Auntie Mel whispers, grabbing my hand and giving it a tight squeeze. “He’s in there with Cooper, who is probably fussing over him as we speak.”
“I know you’re right, but I’d rather see that with my own eyes.” I huff, giving her hand a small squeeze. “But I have a feeling I’m not the only one who’s feeling that way right now.”
“You sure aren’t,” Ramona chimes in, winking at me before motioning toward the locker room door. “The wait is over.”
I turn toward the door and notice Cooper stepping through, wearing a Timberwolves hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower, his grin wide and boyish like he just scored his first-ever goal instead of assisting the game-winner of a nail-biter.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the golden boy himself.” I smile despite the knot in my stomach.
“Excuse you,” he says, feigning offense. “I’m a rugged, well-aged hockey veteran, thank you very much.”
“You’re thirty-two,” I deadpan, slapping him on the arm instead of giving a high five.
“Exactly. Basically ancient in NHL years.”
Ramona laughs and bumps her hip against his. “You were limping like an old man by the second period. Don’t tempt me to order you a walker for your birthday.”
“Can it be team-branded?” Auntie Mel asks, not missing a beat. “With little air horns that go off every time he scores?”
“Why do I love any of you?” Cooper groans.
“Because we’re adorable,” Ramona says sweetly, kissing his cheek.
