Page 35 of Lighting the Lamp
“He didn’t deserve that,” I whisper.
“No, he didn’t,” Auntie Mel says, her voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.
“I swear to God, if I had skates on, I’d take him out at the knees,” Ramona growls.
“Right after I get his ass fired,” Auntie Mel replies with terrifying calm.
I’m not listening to either of them because Beau hasn’t snapped or slammed anything against the boards like he used to when he was younger, angrier, and full of fire. He’s just sitting there, taking it, and that hurts more than if he’d shouted back. And no one seems to see it but me. The puck drops, and the crowd roars again, but the sound is distant now.
The Timberwolves surge forward, fast and hungry for a win under Cooper’s direction. I watch them in my periphery, but my eyes keep drifting back to Beau, completely invisible to the rest of the world except me. All I can think is: if I were down there… would he look up?
Chapter Thirteen
Beau
The locker room is a mess of voices, wet towels, and very loud music. Someone’s got a speaker balanced on a bench, blasting that same obnoxious EDM remix they’ve played after every win since preseason. Guys are shouting over each other, hyped on adrenaline and whatever the hell gave them just enough edge to pull off that last-minute comeback. The whole place reeks of sweat, pine-scented soap, and Mack’s cologne, which might as well be pepper spray at this point.
Normally, I’d be in the thick of it. Letting the noise and chaos wrap around me like armor, but not tonight. Everything tonight is too much and not enough at the same time. It should feel like home, but instead, it feels like a vise around my chest.
“Hey, man!” Jace throws an arm around my shoulders, and I nearly bite my tongue from the sharp flash of pain that shoots through my side. A low, burning pulse like my ribs are being sawed open from the inside.
“Team win, baby! You see that third goal?”
“Hard to miss it,” I say, my voice thin as paper as I force a grin.
“Coop looked like he was ready to fight God when he stepped onto the bench before the third period,” someone calls from across the room.
“Not God. Mercer.” Crosby snorts, peeling off his gear. “I swear, I saw smoke coming out of the guy’s ears.”
The guys laugh, buzzing high on adrenaline and spite. Mercer’s blow-up was theater, and no one’s forgetting it anytime soon.
“Think it’s finally enough to get him canned?”
“We can dream.” I shrug, hoping it passes as casual, but inside I’m thinking,Please let this give the front office the leverage they need to fire his ass and get him out of our hair for good.Mercer’s been a cancer in this room for too long. Most of the guys tiptoe around it, but not Cooper. He stood up tonight, and people saw it. There’s no way to spin Mercer’s tantrum after a win, and yet, I can’t bring myself to celebrate. Not when I’m still hearing the echo of the doctor’s voice from this morning.
“There’s definitely something going on with your heart, Beau. The irregularities in your bloodwork, the arrhythmias on your ECG… it’s not nothing.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my stomach immediately dropping.
“It means we need more tests. You’re also going to need to wear a cardiac event monitor or CAM for the next thirty days so we can track what’s happening outside this room. It’s about the size of a patch, worn on your chest. It records every blip and every skipped beat, whether you’re asleep, working out, or in the middle of a game.” The doctor holds my gaze, steady but not unkind. “It’ll tell us if your heart is keeping up with you, or if it’s not.”
“But I’ll be fine to play, right?”
The doctor pauses longer than I’d like before responding. “That depends on the results from the tests. Until we have aclearer picture of what is going on, I can’t give you a final diagnosis.”
I’ve been trying to outrun that conversation all day. To prove to the doctor and myself that I’m fine. The tests are wrong, and I’ll be able to play hockey again. I smiled at the specialists, promising I’d fit the next appointment in “around playoffs,” like this was some minor thing. Like my entire world didn’t shift two inches to the left the second I heard there was definitely something wrong with my heart and that my future in the league depends on the results.
I can admit to myself that I pushed myself too hard at the peewee practice earlier, doing a lot more than just following the kids around the ice, but I felt fine then. Like nothing happened with my heart, proving the doctor wrong. But the adhesive patch pressed against my chest keeps reminding me otherwise, tugging at my skin every time I move, catching sweat under the edge of my shirt like a brand I can’t shake.How much longer until my next “episode” or until someone tells me I can never get back on the ice again?
No, I can’t think like that. I won’t. I need to be on the ice with my teammates. I need it because without that, who the hell am I? This is why I haven’t told anyone. Not Cooper. Not Alise. Not even the team doc. Hell, the only one who knows I had an appointment is Momma, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. So instead of telling anyone, I went through the day like it was business as usual. I joked with the trainers before the game and slipped back into my routine like the weight on my chest wasn’t real and pressing harder with every breath. I told myself it was just stress at the team’s current losing streak, but I know deep down it’s not just that.
Now, in the locker room, surrounded by my teammates and everything Mercer said, I can’t get back to that carefree feeling. Especially since I’ve been clenching my fists to stop the shakingand blinking way too much to keep the blur from clouding my vision. Even sitting on this damn bench hurts. There’s heat pooling behind my left knee, sharp and steady. My spine’s screaming as indescribable fear claws at my ribs. And beneath it all, the monitor sticks stubbornly to my skin, a silent witness recording every beat, every misstep, and every betrayal of the body I thought I could trust.
Fear that won’t just go away with a few deep breaths, but rather settles deep in your soul. Fear that the thing that’s carried me my whole life—this body, this game, this rhythm—might slip out of my reach.
“Let’s go, Timberwolves!” someone shouts from the back of the room, causing me to jump slightly, and the chant gets picked up instantly.
Sticks tap and fists bang against the lockers in time with the chant. Jace jumps onto the bench beside me, holding a Gatorade bottle like a trophy. “We’re coming back, baby! Cup run, let’s go!”
