Page 98 of Lighting the Lamp
A perfect pass. A one-timer. The net ripples. We score.
The bench erupts, and sticks slam against the boards. The goal horn wails, and my ears ring. The crowd explodes, all stomping feet and roaring voices. I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Again. Relief hits hard, so hard it knocks the wind out of me more than the play ever could.
Please let that be what they remember. Not the shot I should’ve had. Not a second of hesitation. Not me.
The puck resets at center ice. Twenty seconds left. We’re up again, and I intend to keep it that way. I crouch low, every nerve stretched tight. The zone clears.
Ten. Five. Time bleeds out, thick and heavy, like syrup through a crack in the glass.
Three. Two. One. The horn blares.
Game over. We win.
I close my eyes for a second too long, soaking in the sound of victory and letting it muffle the guilt gnawing at my ribs. I paste on a grin and skate toward the chaos, hoping my relief doesn’t look too much like shame.
One of my teammates bumps his helmet against mine as I push out of the crease like I’m moving through concrete. My legs are like anchors. Every move toward the bench is a minor war I barely win. I just need to pretend a little longer. Sell the lie so hard that it sticks.
We disappear into the tunnel. The sound drops out as if someone cut the cord. It’s quieter now, but it’s not better. My thoughts are still screaming. I press my glove to the cinderblock wall as we pass through like it might hold me up.
Just one second. Hold on for just a little longer.
I look around for my teammates, but no one sees. Smile for the fist bumps. Nod when someone smacks the back of my helmet. Pretend my vision isn’t doubling and my hands aren’t trembling and my heartbeat isn’t off.
I make it to the locker room. Helmet off. Pads peeled away with trembling fingers. I stare down at my hands, at the sweat beading across my arms and the tremor I can’t make stop.
“Nice win, boys,” Mackenzie calls, tossing his gloves into his cubby. “Even if lover boy almost gave it away.”
“Yeah,” Declan chimes in with a shit-eating grin. “I swear, we better get him a leash, or he’s gonna drift right out of the crease next time.”
Laughter bubbles around the room, and I grin reflexively, like a mask slipping into place. Because if I don’t, they’ll know. And if they know, this might all come crashing down around me, so I keep smiling.
Even as my hands tremble in my lap. Even as the sweat dries cold on my back. Even as everything in me screams I can’t keep doing this. Not when my body’s betraying me inch by inch, and every shift in the net feels like a countdown to the moment I finally crack, and the ice—my safe place, my constant—feels like it’s turning on me.
I ball my fists, willing the shake to stop. Stop. Just stop.
Across the room, someone jokes about post-game beers. Someone else flicks a towel at Declan. Normal stuff, but I’m still sitting here like I forgot how to move, and no one notices.
No one sees that I’m not okay. That I’m breaking open again, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe I’ve gotten too good atpretending and selling the version of me they need—the calm, unshakable wall in the net. The reliable one. The strong one. The one who never misses.
Even when everything inside me is splintering and the truth feels like a weight pressing against my ribs, begging to be let out. But I can’t let it out because if I admit it—if I say the words out loud—it’s real. And if it’s real, I don’t know what happens next.
So I smile again and force it harder this time. Letting it stretch until it feels like it might split my face open. Then I grab my bag, stand on legs that barely hold me, and walk out of the locker room like I’m not falling apart.
Because I’m not. Not again. Not ever. Especially not tonight.
Chapter Thirty
Beau
It’s been three days since the game. Three days of pretending I’m just under the weather.
Three days of hiding behind unread texts and one-word replies. Three days of lying to myself that it’s just a fluke and nothing too serious. Fuck, for once in my life, I wish I were a better liar.
I missed game films on Friday and practice today. There’s a game this weekend, and I’m not sure I’m going to make it. I haven’t told anyone yet because saying it out loud makes it real. Real is the monster in the dark corner of the room I refuse to look at.
I shift on the couch, muscles twitching like exposed wires. Pain slices down my back and coils around my ribs. My spine feels like it’s fused into one long cramp. My knees ache. My fingers are stiff and so uncoordinated that I dropped a glass this morning just trying to pour water. I didn’t even flinch when it shattered, just stared at the broken pieces on the floor because picking them up would’ve hurt more. I left them right there on the kitchen floor before returning to my spot, curling up on the couch where I’ve been for hours.
The pain in my head has become its own pulse, ringing in my ears louder than my heartbeat. A living, snarling thing burrowed behind my eyes. Even with the blinds mostly drawn, the sliver of light leaking through needles at my skin, piercing my skull. I curl tighter into myself, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like punishment. Everything is too much. Too rough. Too hot. Too loud. Even the silence hurts.
