Chapter 9 – Beau
Chapter Nine
Beau
The second Alise steps out the door, I stare at my phone like it might explode in my hand. My thumb hovers over Momma in my contacts. I really don’t want to make this call, but I also can’t let her find out from someone else.
Cooper probably rang her the second I hit the ice, and knowing her, she’s pacing the kitchen floor in circles right now. Probably panicking, imagining the worst, and replaying every terrible thing that could’ve happened because she doesn’t have any answers.
I close my eyes, trying to steady the thundering in my chest. My hands aren’t shaking, at least not yet, but there’s a tremor in my gut.
A pressure that hasn’t let up since I woke up a few hours ago.
I’m terrified in a way I haven’t been since Dad died, but I can’t let her hear that in my voice.
If I lose it, she’ll lose it. Right now, she needs me to be the calm one.
So, before I can talk myself out of it, I take a deep breath, hit the call button, and lift the phone to my ear.
“Beau?”
She says my name like it’s a question, like she’s been holding her breath since the moment Cooper called and doesn’t know if I’ll be the same person when she exhales.
Something inside me cracks open at the helplessness in her voice.
I want to take it away, to tell her that there is nothing to worry about, but I also don’t want to lie to Momma.
“Hey, Ma.” I try to sound normal, like this is no big deal.
“You okay?” she asks, trying to sound casual, not like she’s bracing herself for my answer. “Cooper said that you collapsed on the ice during practice and are in the hospital.”
“Yeah. I mean… they’re just tests. They’re being cautious.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say too quickly.
Her silence stretches long enough that I can feel the disbelief radiating through the phone. “Don’t lie to me, Beauregard Tobias Hendrix.”
“Damn, Momma. Busting out my full name while I’m sick and in the hospital,” I respond, trying to deflect her attention so she stops prying further into what’s going on.
I don’t want to tell her how terrified I am, how I may never play hockey again and don’t know how to live if I don’t have a stick in my hand.
I want her and everyone else to let me laugh this off like it’s no big deal.
The doctor will run some tests, give me a clean bill of health, and I’ll be back on the ice where I belong.
But there’s a part of me that knows that won’t happen anytime soon.
“First off, language,” she huffs, her voice hitching slightly before she continues. “Second, the moment calls for it. You shouldn’t lie, especially not to your mother, who has been pacing this house for hours, waiting for one of you to remember she exists and deem important enough to call her.”
“Momma, we didn’t mean—” I say, but she cuts me off before I can give her an excuse.
“I know, baby. I know. But I’m your mother; it’s in my DNA to worry about you boys every minute of every day. Now, how about you try telling me the truth?”
“I’m fine,” I try again, but it’s even weaker this time, brittle around the edges. She doesn’t say anything right away, and that’s worse.
“You are not,” she says, voice low but firm. “I can hear it. You sound like you’re trying not to scare me, which tells me everything I need to know.”
I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out because she’s right. My chest is tight, and my legs won’t stop twitching beneath the blanket. My heart is racing again, even though the beeping on the monitor insists it’s fine.
“I just didn’t want to worry you.”
“Well, too late for that.” She sighs, the sound only a mom can make. It’s disappointment, love, and worry all rolled into one breath. “So don’t waste time pretending.”
“They haven’t found anything definitive. Just… monitoring, more scans tomorrow. Coach already benched me. I’m on the injured reserve until the playoffs.”
She breathes through her nose like she’s trying to keep from cussing or crying. “That damn coach needs to learn to leave my boys alone. First Cole, then the coaching crap with Cooper, and now you. If I thought smacking some sense into him would help, I’d drive up there myself and do it.”
I huff something that might’ve been a laugh, but only air and ache drag past my ribs. It doesn’t sound human. Doesn’t feel like it either.
“But I know it wouldn’t change a thing,” she says softly, like the words cost her something. “He’d still act like this is all your fault. This has nothing to do with the fact that Michele did what was best for her and not his image.”
I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, grounding myself in the pain.
I don’t trust my voice, so I don’t use it.
But Momma doesn’t say anything else. She waits before gently, like she’s testing the weight of it, asks, “Do you think putting you on the injured reserve list was the right call?”
My chest tightens; the question lands in the middle of it like a puck to the sternum.
I swallow around the lump clawing its way up my throat and turn my head, not to answer, just to hide.
Outside the window, cars blur by in streaks of red and gold.
A mom wrangles her toddler into a booster seat.
A guy in a tie sips coffee at a stoplight.
Life uninterrupted, like nothing cracked open this week and my entire world isn’t teetering on the edge of something I can’t name.
“I’m not sure,” I say, barely above a whisper, and that’s probably the truest thing I’ve said since waking up in this bed.
I expect her to push and tell me what she thinks, but she doesn’t. “Okay, we’ll figure it out. Now, are you alone?”
I glance toward the door and notice the crack Alise left in the door.
She’s quietly whispering something to Cooper.
As if she could feel my eyes on her, she turns, a soft smile spreading across her face as she winks before turning back to my brother.
That one simple gesture makes everything else in the room stop spinning.
The way she looks at me anchors something inside me I didn’t know was floating loose.
“No, Alise and Cooper are still here.” I press the phone tighter to my ear. “She’s gonna drive me home once I’m discharged. Coach said I could help with the peewee team while I’m off the ice.”
There’s a pause, but when Mom speaks again, her voice has shifted to something softer, almost smiling. “Are you up for coaching?”
“Yeah. The doctor said no strenuous activity for a while, but I can handle a clipboard and bossing around some kids.” I nod instinctively, then realize she can’t see me.
“That’s wonderful, sweetheart.” Her warmth threads through the line, and I swear I can feel it sink into my skin. “Maybe you could work with Darius’s team.”
My lips twitch into something that could almost be mistaken for warmth if you weren’t looking too closely, but it doesn’t reach my eyes.
Darius and Ford. I see them both in a flash: Darius, with his too-big Timberwolves hoodie and permanent scowl whenever anyone touches his gear.
Ford, trailing behind me in the locker room, trying to mimic my swagger, talking big like he’s not just a kid who’s had to grow up way too fast. Then the images shift.
Darius in the stands, wide-eyed and frozen as I drop on the ice.
Then Ford screaming for someone to help.
My breath catches like I’ve swallowed a stone.
My stomach rolls, bitter and hot. What if they see that?
What if I become that memory? The one that sticks to the inside of their heads and won’t come out.
The one they carry around, tight in their chest, the way I still carry the sound of rocks falling as our Dad disappeared toward the forest floor.
What if all they remember is me falling?
“What if it happens again?” I blurt out, voice barely a whisper. “What if I’m on the ice with a bunch of kids and my heart just gives out? What if I scare the hell out of Darius or Ford? What if I—”
“Stop,” she says gently but firmly. “Don’t go there.”
My pulse has already picked up, brain racing ahead as images of what could happen run through my mind like a movie. “I can’t do that to them. I can’t be the reason they have another bad memory.”
“Beau,” my mom says softly, “you are not a bad memory. You’re a blessing. You show up for those boys in a way most men don’t.”
“But what if—”
“You can’t protect everyone from everything, and you don’t have to. All you can do is show up. Be honest. Be careful. And if something happens, we’ll deal with it.”
“I just—” My voice breaks. “I don’t want them to see me like that.”
She’s quiet for a long moment before she says, “They already see you for who you are. Brave, consistent, and kind. They don’t need you to be invincible. They need you to be you.”
I can’t respond right away; my throat tightens at the sound of a familiar voice across the line. I squeeze my eyes shut, drag in a breath, and force out, “Momma, who’s with you?”
“Ramona. She came down to pick me up. Say hello to Beau, sweetheart.”
I blink, thrown for a second. I’m not sure I heard her right. Ramona?
“Hey, Beau.” Her voice is soft—barely above a whisper—but there’s something frayed beneath it, like she’s been holding her breath and just let it out.
“Hey… Mona.” My voice comes out rough, scraped raw from too many emotions I haven’t figured out how to name yet. I swallow around the lump lodged in my throat and try to steady myself. “Is Darius with you?”
Please say no. Please, God.
“No,” she blurts out too quickly. “He stayed at the condo with Cole and Michele.” There’s a beat of silence before she adds, quieter, guilt bleeding through, “We didn’t want to scare him… but I’m sure he knows something’s up.”
My stomach twists as I drag a hand down my face in relief. “Yeah, that boy notices everything, especially when we don’t want him to.”
Another pause—this one thick with all the words we’re not saying.
“Sorry you had to go all the way down to Redwood Falls,” I say, trying to shift the focus off the rising panic bubbling under my skin. If Darius had heard me, if he’d caught even a piece of that conversation with Momma…
“It’s no—” Ramona cuts herself off with a breath that sounds like it might shatter her. “I shouldn’t have listened in. I didn’t mean to—your mom had you on speaker, and then she started talking about Darius and…” Her voice breaks. “I shouldn’t be crying, but Beau, you scared the hell out of us.”
I close my eyes, guilt punching through my ribs like a fist. “I didn’t mean for anyone to hear any of that, but I couldn’t do it anymore. It’s been so hard trying to hold it together. For Cooper. For Momma. For everyone.”
“You don’t have to hold it together for us,” she whispers. “We love you, and that means we get to be scared, too.”
A sharp breath catches in my lungs. I don’t have the words. Not the right ones. So I just whisper, “Thanks for being there and going to get Momma.”
Momma’s voice breaks in then, warm and fierce and sharp with love. “You really think I was gonna sit around while my son was in the hospital?”
She exhales hard, like she’s been holding her breath for hours.
“We won’t crowd you. Cooper and Alise are already there, and the last thing you need is a full house of stubborn women fussing over you. We’ll go to your condo, pack up what we can fit in the car, and be waiting when you get home.”
“Okay.” The word tears out of me, raw and uneven. “Thank you.”
My throat tightens the second I say it. Not just from everything I’ve tried to hold in, but from everything I couldn’t.
I can hear her smiling through the phone. That steady smile only a mom can give you when you’re bleeding on the inside. “You just focus on getting better, sweetheart.”
There’s a knock on the door, and my head lifts as Alise steps in without a word. No hesitation or awkward pause like she’s unsure if she should be here. She just is, like always, and it breaks something in me.
She catches my eye with a quiet nod—simple, steady, and sure—crossing the room with a kind of gentleness that makes me feel more undone than any sharp word ever could.
“I gotta go,” I say hoarsely, still watching her. “I love you.”
“We love you, too,” my mom and Ramona echo, their voices laced with something heavier than worry as I end the call.
I lower the phone with slow, deliberate movements.
If I move too fast, the brittle shell I’ve built around myself might crack wide open.
Alise doesn’t say anything as she crouches beside the bed, her presence quiet but unflinching.
One hand slips over mine, warm and solid, and that’s all it takes.
The trembling starts in the fingertips, then my jaw, and then my chest caves in.
A choked sound claws its way out of my throat, sharp and ugly, and I double over.
My forehead crashes into hers like I’m trying to hold on to the last solid thing I’ve got, and then I break.
Sobs tear through me before I can stop them, ripping straight from my chest. There’s no bracing anymore.
No pretending, just the wreckage of everything I’ve tried so hard to hold in, pouring out like floodwater.
Alise doesn’t flinch or shush me and tell me it’s going to be okay. She just stays right there, breathing with me. Grounding me. Her hand over mine, her forehead pressed to mine, and her quiet strength wrapped around the edges of my chaos like a net.
“I didn’t mean to lose it,” I rasp, words barely getting past the sob stuck in my throat.
“On the phone, I just couldn’t fake it anymore.
I can’t keep pretending I’m okay.” My voice shatters on that last word, and still, she doesn’t let go.
Her fingers tighten just enough to remind me I’m not alone.
Her other hand comes up and cups the back of my neck, thumb brushing slow and sure against my skin like she’s rewiring me piece by piece.
“You don’t have to. Not with them or me,” she says the quiet truth, solid as the earth beneath us.
Something twists in my chest, relief and fear all tangled up.
I squeeze my eyes shut as another sob breaks loose.
My whole body shakes with it. It’s not pretty or brave, but it’s real.
And by some miracle, Alise stays through the storm.
Her breath syncs with mine until the edges of my grief soften just enough to let a little air in.
There’s no fixing this. No making it neat or manageable, but for the first time in days—maybe weeks—I’m not carrying it alone.