Page 97 of Lighting the Lamp
Jace chirps something about my “senior citizen stamina,” and I force a laugh.
Not too hard. Don’t cough. Don’t wince.
I towel off, stand tall, and continue to move like nothing is different. Not straining too hard for anyone to notice, acting just normal enough to pass. I can’t admit it. I can’t let them know that this all might be too much. If I so much as think the word flare-up, I might lose the ground I’ve gained. I can’t. Not now, when things are finally good. Not when I’m almost happy. Not when I almost have her.
So I grit my teeth and lie with my smile, my body, and my silence. If I pretend long enough, it’ll go away. And if it doesn’t? Well, that’s future me’s problem.
The lights are brutal tonight. Hot, sharp, and burning down through the rafters like twin suns. The air in the arena is dry and thick with noise. Our fans are on their feet, pounding the glass and screaming our names. It’s the energy that used to light me up, but right now, it feels like it’s pressing me down.
I crouch low in the crease, tracking the puck as it moves through the neutral zone. My heart’s already racing, and not in the good, locked-in way. It’s pounding too fast, too loud. My vision blurs slightly at the edges, like the ice is pulling away from me in slow motion.
Come on. Focus.
We’re up 2–1 in the third, and there are six minutes left on the clock. I’ve made thirty-two saves tonight. I should feel confident that we can add another point in the win column, but I don’t. My limbs feel disconnected and heavy, like my pads have gained ten pounds between periods. I noticed a few saves agothat my glove hand is slower than usual. I told myself it was just nerves, but the more time that ticks by, I know it’s not.
High above, the announcer’s voice blares through the arena, but the words are just a wash of static now. I can’t hear him anymore, unable to make out anything past the thunder of blood in my ears.
“You still starry-eyed from that kiss, Hendrix? You’ve gotta let the girl breathe.” Crosby skates by on a shift change, dragging his stick behind him like a menace.
“Shut up.” I huff a laugh that burns in my lungs.
“Can’t,” he chirps. “You’re too dreamy these days. You smiled during warmup. It was weird.”
“Bet his glove hand’s all slow ‘cause he’s out here trying to impress his girl,’” Mackenzie adds. “He probably missed that goal cause he was planning on what to name their future kids and how to teach ‘em to stop pucks.”
My teammates are joking at my expense, so I should joke back. But all I can do is nod because my hands won’t stop shaking, and my knees feel like they’re made of glass. Every breath feels too fast and too shallow. My ribs are closing in on themselves, like the laces on my chest protector are pulling tighter with each inhale.
“Let’s go, Hendrix!” Cooper yells from the point. His glance lingers just long enough to make my stomach twist. “Lock it down.”
Do I look off? Can they tell? No, if he had noticed, he would have thrown a fit until I was off the ice. It’s fine. Everything is fine. I just need to make it to the end of the game.
The puck drops and play resumes. The other team is coming in hot, but I’m ready. The puck slides across the ice, and I drop into a butterfly again. It takes everything I’ve got. My thighs tremble as I move. My chest is molten with heat, my pulse drumming behind my eyes. I blink, and the puck doubles justlong enough to scare the shit out of me. It slams into my pad and ricochets away. It’s not clean, but they didn’t score. That’s the only thing that counts.
“Hey, dial it in, man!” Crosby barks, sharp and too close. “You look like you’re trying to meditate, not play goalie.”
I force myself up again, one motion at a time. My body is fighting me now. Sweat soaks through my jersey, dripping down my spine, and makes the pads slick against my skin. A cheer swells through the stands, loud and wild, but it’s muffled. It’s like I’m at the bottom of the ocean; everything’s warped and distant. The noise stretches and pulls like a warped record.
Focus. Focus, Beau.
I crouch, my body screaming in protest as a lightning-hot jolt shoots down my spine. My stomach flips so hard it feels like the ice is tilting beneath me. I blink hard as the puck doubles.
“Don’t fall,” I whisper, barely audible. “Don’t miss. Don’t make it worse.”
Another rush of bodies is coming in my direction. The other team’s forward breaks the blue line, cutting hard across the slot. He’s fast, and I shift to the right, but the signal hits late, and the puck slips through the five-hole and dings off the post into the back of the net. Goal. Tie game.
The red light flares behind me. The roar of the crowd swells, then crashes over me like a wave I can’t outskate. I don’t move. I can’t. My pulse is a war drum, pounding in my ears. I’m locked in place.
“Jesus, Hendrix.” Bowers skates past, his eyebrows pulled down in question. “You good, or you taking a nap down there?”
“That one’s on you, but you good?” Cooper drifts in, glancing down at me, panting.
“Fine.” The lie rasps its way out, but my lips barely move.
He doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the tic of his jaw and the crease between his brows. He stares for a breath too long, but only nods before skating off.
One more face-off. One more minute. I just need to hold it together. We win this, and no one has to know. We win this, and maybe no one remembers the soft one I let in.
The puck drops. My eyes lock on it, tracking every stutter, every spin. Then—chaos.
