Chapter 8 – Alise
Chapter Eight
Alise
Ican feel the exact moment his breathing levels out. It’s not sudden or a dramatic shift like people think, but his shoulders ease by a fraction, and the death grip on my hands loosens just enough for blood to return to my fingers.
“I know how it feels,” I whisper, the words barely audible between us. “To hold it all in until it cracks something open inside you.”
His shoulders shift, like he’s listening even if he can’t respond, and he rests his forehead against me like he’s still trying to anchor himself in the storm.
“I used to think breaking down meant I was weak. That if I let someone see the mess, they’d walk away.” I let out a slow, shaky breath. “But you didn’t. Not once.”
I pull back just enough to see his face—eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched like he’s still trying to keep something in.
God, I hate seeing him like this, but more than that, I hate how long it took him to get here.
How hard he fought to hold it all in, to pretend like none of it was catching up with him.
Most of all, I hate that I almost caved in on myself earlier.
That when his eyes met mine, silently begging me to speak up and save him, I almost did. But I couldn’t this time.
Beau’s drowning in everyone’s expectations, his ego, and the fear of letting everyone down.
If I keep tossing him life vests made of denial, I’m no better than the people who expect him to be indestructible.
But I won’t be the person to let him drown in these emotions.
I’ll be his life raft, just like he’s always done for me.
“You’ve been there for me more times than I can count, Beau.
You sat with me during panic attacks, held my hand, and helped me breathe when the world felt too loud.
You never asked for anything in return.” My voice cracks, but I don’t care because I want him to hear this.
“So if I can be that for you now and make this just a little less terrifying, I want to because you deserve an anchor, too.”
I close my eyes, forehead pressing lightly to his.
For weeks, I’ve watched him unravel in silence.
Seen the exhaustion under his eyes, the quiet flinches, and heard the hollowness behind his jokes.
He thought he was hiding it, but I’ve seen those cracks before.
It’s like looking in a mirror at my reflection.
His hand tightens around mine again, not in panic this time, but something steadier. “Did Coach really mean it? IR until the playoffs?”
I pause, wanting to lie to him, but decide against it. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean it’s over.”
He doesn’t answer, but I hear the slight hitch in his breathing.
The way his jaw tightens and his shoulders curl inward again, like he’s trying to disappear into himself.
His knee bounces up and down rapidly, shaking the entire bed.
I know that feeling. The spiral is coming back, quieter this time, but no less dangerous.
I drop onto the bed beside him, still holding his hand, and watch him closely.
His grip tightens suddenly, as if he’s trying to stop the freefall with sheer force.
I can see exactly what’s flashing through his head.
He’s terrified of losing hockey, his place in the world.
He’s terrified that if he’s not in the net, he’s nothing because Beau isn’t just a player.
He’s the constant. The glue. The quiet, dependable one who’s held his brothers and the Timberwolves together through every disaster, every loss.
And if he breaks now, after everything that happened with Cole, what happens then?
What happens to the fragile bond Cole’s just started rebuilding with Cooper? Will that fall apart again if Beau’s not there, a few doors down, to keep the peace? Will they still need him? Will everything he’s sacrificed still not be enough?
“I c-can’t—” He stutters, unable to finish the sentence, but he doesn’t have to. I can feel what he’s saying in the way he shakes.
“Beau.” My voice is firm now, grounding. “Stop it right now.”
His head jerks like I just snapped a cord inside him.
“You can’t do anything for anyone else until you take care of yourself,” I say, pressing his hand against my chest. “You can’t keep everyone else together if you’re bleeding out. You can’t be the glue, the big brother, the teammate, the peacekeeper if you don’t start with you.”
He tries to argue, but a helpless and broken sound escapes him.
“You’re allowed to need rest. You’re allowed to fall apart. Neither of those things makes you weak, Beau.” I pause, letting him hear every word. “It makes you real.”
His shoulders shake with grief, and I hold him closer, letting him feel my breath against his temple. “You’ve been holding everything up for so long, it’s no wonder you’re collapsing.”
Finally, he speaks, so quietly I almost miss it.
“He took everything away from me. Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I am.”
“No,” I whisper, leaning into him. “He didn’t.”
“You don’t understand.” He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the fear in his eyes cuts me clean. “I am hockey, Alise. That’s all I’ve ever been.”
I hold his face between my palms, gentle but unyielding. “You’re still you, Beau. And that has always been enough.”
He blinks, lashes wet, breath shuddering.
“You were never just hockey to me or anyone else in our makeshift family. We all see you, Beau. The person behind all of that. The person you rarely let anyone see.”
His throat works around a hard swallow, like he’s trying to bury the ache, but it’s already out in the open. “It doesn’t feel that way.”
“I know it doesn’t feel like that now, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”
He doesn’t answer, just leans forward until his forehead touches mine again. His hands, still trembling slightly, stay laced in mine. “I don’t know how to stop and just be if I’m not pushing.”
“Then let me help you learn.”
He exhales shakily. His walls aren’t down, not fully, but something has shifted.
“I think more of you,” I say again, softer this time, barely more than a breath. “Not less. Never less.”
And when his fingers squeeze mine, I know he hears and believes me. Maybe not all the way yet, but enough to try, and that’s all I can ask for. We stay like that for a long time until he lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed and unfocused, but I don’t ask him to say anything.
“You’ve done this for me so many times. Let me do it for you now.”
Beau leans back slowly, one arm draped across his middle, the other swiping beneath his eyes with the heel of his hand like he’s trying to erase everything that just happened.
His mouth twitches, but not quite a smile.
“Guess that means I’m not allowed to joke about faking my death and running off into the woods, huh? ”
I blink, startled. The edge of a laugh escapes before I can catch it, more breath than sound, but real. “Only if you want your mom to track you down and drag you back by the ear.”
He groans, dragging both hands down his face now. “God. Momma. I have to call her.” His whole body deflates with the weight of it, like the very idea has aged him ten years in three seconds.
“Yeah. I do not envy you.”
“If he did, it’s the nicest thing he’s ever done for me.” I shrug, trying to keep it light. That statement earns me a soft huff, more breath than humor, but it dies fast.
“Cooper said he’d take care of it, but I don’t know if he actually did.”
His gaze flicks toward the table where his phone sits, screen dark. The silence stretches again, longer this time. But I don’t say anything; I just wait and watch the way his throat bobs, the way his jaw clenches like he’s holding something in his mouth he can’t quite spit out.
Then his voice breaks the quiet, rough and so small I almost miss it. “I don’t know if I’m okay.”
I look at him, shoulders slumped again and his fingers twitching where they rest on the blanket.
His eyes fill with moisture, rimmed in red, like he’s been holding back more tears than he’ll admit.
Beneath it all, I see deep and gnawing fear, like he’s staring into a future he doesn’t recognize.
I reach across and squeeze his hand gently.
“That’s okay. You don’t have to be.”
He blinks once, slowly, like he’s trying to believe me.
I grab his phone from the table and place it gently in his hand.
He takes it without a word, but when our fingers brush, I feel a slight tremble in his hands, but I don’t draw attention to it.
I grin and stand, his eyes lifting to mine, and there’s something in them I’ve never seen from him before: fear.
Not the quick, game-time kind of frustration, but the wide-eyed, soul-deep fear that comes when everything you’ve built your life around is cracking beneath your feet and you’re not sure what’s left when the dust settles.
“I’ll give you a minute.” I flash him another reassuring smile before pushing to my feet.
His eyes say thank you but also beg me not to go too far. I squeeze his shoulder once as he leans back, phone clutched like a buoy, the other arm thrown over his eyes like he’s bracing himself for impact.
I turn, not bothering to look back, and open the door to leave, but I don’t close it all the way.
I leave it cracked, with just enough space so he knows that I’m still here.
Outside in the hallway, it feels colder, like everything is so much louder after my and Beau’s hushed conversations in the hospital room.
The overhead lights hum as I hear the soft sound of a nurse laughing down the corridor.
I exhale for what feels like the first time in hours, lungs raw with the effort, before I round the corner and freeze.
“He hasn’t even had the full cardiac eval yet. You really think pulling him now makes sense?” Cooper’s voice, low and barely under control, slices through the hallway like a blade.