Chapter 7 – Beau
Chapter Seven
Beau
It feels like every molecule in the room is holding its breath as Coach Mercer scans the room.
He’s like a storm cloud that’s settled over us, waiting to strike.
He’s traded in his black sweats and Timberwolves hoodie from practice for a perfectly tailored black suit.
His face is unreadable, not a wasted motion as he scans the room, eyes locking on me sitting in the hospital bed.
My grip tightens on the edge of the hospital blanket, knuckles whitening against the sterile cotton as I wait for someone to break the silence. The material rustles under my hands, the only sound I can hear besides the dull, traitorous thud of my heart.
Alise takes a seat on the bed beside me, gripping my hand in hers.
She tries to give me a reassuring smile before her eyes focus on Cooper, standing near the window.
He is pacing back and forth with his arms folded tight, trying to burn off some of his nervous energy.
Parker practically jumps to attention, his back ramrod straight and hands fisted at his side.
It’s like everyone has readjusted to Coach’s presence in the room, and not in a good way.
The air is completely still, like it knows better than to move before he speaks again.
Dr. Raman shifts uncomfortably in place before glancing at the monitor beside my bed and scribbling something in my chart and gently laying a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll be back in about thirty minutes to run the cardiac stress panel and echo.”
Bile rises into my throat as my stomach twists in on itself. The words cardiac and stress aren’t supposed to apply to thirty-year-old NHL goalies in the best shape of their lives. Heart conditions and stress tests are for fifty-year-olds with major health problems.
“Stress panel?” Coach questions, his focus snapping to Dr. Raman.
The doctor doesn’t even flinch before responding smoothly. “Precautionary. There’s no cause for alarm right now.
“Try to get some rest, okay?” Dr. Raman smiles grimly in my direction before releasing a resigned sigh and exiting the room.
Coach continues to stand in the middle of the room and watch me.
His eyes sweep over me like he’s already deciding how to move the pieces on the board.
To him, I’m nothing more than a broken piece of equipment.
He’s calculating what it’ll cost to fix or replace me.
Right now, to him, I’m not even a person in that gaze, but a variable that can easily be tossed aside.
“It’s just routine, Coach.” Parker comes out of his stupor and finally speaks, hands out like he’s trying to smooth the air. “Post-incident protocol. He’s stable. Nothing a few days’ rest won’t cure. The doctor said we had nothing to worry about.”
That’s only part of the truth, but I won’t tell Coach that.
It seems all he knows right now is that I passed out at practice.
I doubt we’d be having this conversation if he already knew that my heart isn’t beating properly and that was why I passed out.
There’s no way he’d let me anywhere near the locker room, let alone skate out on that ice if he did.
“He collapsed on the damn ice. Does that look standard to you?”
The words hit sharper than they should. I flinch slightly, forcing my spine straighter and my chin up. “I’m fine. Dr. Raman said it was just a precaution.”
Coach’s gaze cuts to mine. “You’re in a hospital gown with heart monitors and Lord knows what else hooked up to your body. You. Are. Not. Fine. Beau.”
Cooper jumps in, voice strained. “It looks worse than it really is. He needs rest. He hasn’t been sleeping or eating right and pushing himself too hard.”
Not medical. Stable. It’s like Parker and Cooper are trying to build me a parachute out of tissue paper.
I want to scream at them to stop minimizing what happened.
To stop pretending that this is just a scratch and I’m not splintering at the core.
There’s no way Coach is going to buy any of it.
My chest tightens as my vision slowly darkens around the edges.
Fear slowly creeps in about what Coach is going to say.
That no matter how fast they come up with reasonable explanations, Coach won’t pretend this was all a fluke and not something that could take everything from me.
“You’re going on IR.”
“No.” I breathe too fast, too desperate. “No, I’m not.”
“You are. At least until the playoffs at minimum.”
The room tilts as my lungs seize, but I don’t breathe. I don’t move because if I do, I’m going to fall apart. I can’t do that now. Not with everyone still in the room because they’ll see.
“That’s premature. We haven’t even seen the echo results. You can’t—” Parker objects, but Coach cuts him off.
“I’m not gambling the season on another Hendrix wildcard,” Coach snaps, arms folding tight across his chest.
A sound lodges in my chest. I can’t speak or swallow, my ribs feeling as if they’re splintering inward. Is that what I am now? A liability? A bad bet?
Cooper’s face twists in rage. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Coach’s voice doesn’t waver. “You know what it means. I saw the signs with Cole. Same bravado, same silence, and the same damn refusal to ask for help. When he imploded, he took my daughter down with him.”
“I’m not Cole,” I grind out.
“That’s what scares me.” The icy tone in Coach’s voice cuts me to my core.
I don’t realize my hands are shaking until I feel the blanket trembling in my grip. I hold tighter, trying to keep them still. Trying to hold myself still.
“You’re punishing me for what happened between you and him, aren’t you?”
Coach’s eyes harden. “I’m protecting the team.”
“Forget the team!” My voice cracks, raw and too loud. “What about me?”
Silence crashes down like an avalanche as I swing my legs off the bed. The movement makes my head spin, but I stand anyway, bare feet unsteady on the cold tile floor.
“What am I supposed to do if I can’t play? If I’m not in the net, if I’m not suited up, if I’m not on the ice—who the hell am I?”
No one answers because it’s not a question any of them can answer. But I already know. I’m nothing. There’s nothing left but a shell of the man I was supposed to be.
“You,” Cooper says finally, his voice softer now. “You’re left. That’s always been enough.”
I want to believe him, but I can’t. I don’t know the version of me without hockey, and I don’t want to.
“I went to college like you asked and got a bullshit degree,” I mutter. “But that was never the plan. The only thing I’ve ever wanted is to play hockey.”
“You’ve got us.” Parker clears his throat, stepping beside me and placing his hand on my arm.
“Then don’t let him bench me,” I say, voice shaking.
Coach exhales sharply. “You don’t need another concussion or cardiac episode to feel useful.”
“I’m not trying to prove anything.”
“You’re trying to outrun the truth. Pretending you’re invincible doesn’t make you indestructible.”
“I’m not—”
“Then why lie about the symptoms?” he cuts in, voice cold.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out because he’s right. I did lie about being cleared because I didn’t want to be seen as fragile, scared, broken open, and spilling out in front of the people who need me to be strong. Coach steps close enough that I can see the lines around his eyes.
“I trusted Cole to get his shit together, but he wasn’t man enough to do it. And now I have to sit by and wait for him to spiral until there is nothing left but pure devastation.”
“Say that again,” Cooper growls, lunging toward him, but Parker’s already grabbing him, holding him back.
“You don’t get to say a fucking thing about our brother!” Cooper shouts, straining against Parker’s arms. “You don’t get to twist his name into a weapon just because you’re a selfish prick that pushed away his own daughter.”
“This has nothing to do with Michele. Cole is a fucking drug addict who’d rather take pills than man up to his problem,” Coach responds calmly.
“I can’t take the chance that Beau isn’t man enough either.
He’s going on the IR until he can produce a certified doctor release that says he’s fit to play. ”
My entire world is unraveling around me, shattering into a million pieces that I’m not sure I can ever put back together again. I can feel it in my chest, in the pressure behind my eyes, in the breath I can’t catch.
“Please don’t do this. Let me take the tests and train off-ice. Let me try. Don’t make this official. Not yet.”
Coach stands there for a few moments before sighing loudly. “Go home to Redwood Falls. Rest. Skate with the peewee team. Listen to your doctor. If the results come back clean, we’ll talk.”
I swallow the panic rising in my throat. “So that’s it?”
“Yes, that’s it. You’re on IR until playoffs.”
The moment the door shuts behind Coach Mercer with a dull click, something inside me caves.
I stay frozen in place; my legs feel like they aren’t mine anymore—too heavy and too hollow all at once.
The weight of the moment should’ve passed.
He’s gone, and I’m on the injured reserve list until I get cleared.
Completely. After a doctor has run all the tests and taken all the blood they want.
But until then, I’m headed back to Redwood Falls.
Coach has made his decision, albeit a bad one, but I can’t do anything about it.
It’s over and done with, but my body doesn’t know that.
The sound of the door closing continues to echo in my chest like a gunshot as I try to breathe, just breathe.
But the air doesn’t come out smoothly. It catches high in my chest, shallow and tight.
My lungs feel like they’re shrinking, ribs cinched too tight to stretch.
The room tilts again, but not like earlier when I stood up too fast. This time, the floor is sliding out from under me, and I need to grip the edge of the bed just to stay upright.