Chapter 10 – Alise
Chapter Ten
Alise
The phone buzzes against the cluttered desk.
I don’t even have to look to know who’s calling me.
The vibration alone carries a sense of urgency that only one person can summon without a single word.
I swipe at the screen to answer, cradling the phone between my cheek and shoulder as I keep tapping out inventory numbers.
“Hey, Auntie Mel.”
“Don’t you ‘hey’ me, like you’re not thirty seconds from screening my calls,” she says without preamble, the familiar warmth of her voice cutting through the sterile buzz of the rink office.
“I can’t stop worrying if he’s breathing.
Eating. Standing upright with both eyes facing the same direction. ”
Beau has been back home in Redwood Falls for a few weeks, and to say we’ve all been hovering is an understatement. But none of us more than Auntie Mel. I have a feeling that his only reprieve is when he comes to the rink to coach the U14 team.
I roll my eyes skyward, even as my lips twitch. “Yes. No. Maybe. You know Beau.”
“Oh, I do. That boy has the emotional communication skills of a decorative throw pillow and the pain tolerance of a warhorse. But he’s still my baby, and I can’t stop worrying. I’ve gone as far as placing my hand on his chest when he’s sleeping just to make sure he’s still breathing.”
“It’s okay, Auntie Mel,” I respond, my voice softening around the edges. “Everyone is worried about him. Ramona even drove down to be at practice today.”
“Doesn’t the team have a game?”
“Yes, but not until 7:30. Beau is leaving practice early today so they can make it by the first puck drop. It was the only way Cooper would stop pestering him about coming.”
“Cooper is being so overprotective. Beau needs to be there for his team. And I already know what you’re going to say. Pot, meet kettle, but Beau is sitting on a bench at the game, not trying to corral a gaggle of teenage boys.”
I glance out the window. Beau’s a blur of navy and white, moving across the ice like he’s got something to prove to gravity itself, flying by as if it’s just a regular Tuesday afternoon.
“That’s true, but either way, he’s fine. I promise,” I say, my voice hitching slightly on the lie. “Back on the ice today.”
“Back on the ice?” she repeats, scandalized. “Did he grow a second heart when I wasn’t looking? Did I miss the miracle transplant? Because last I checked, you don’t just bounce back from a cardiac episode like a stubbed toe.”
I close my eyes and press the phone tighter to my cheek. “He said the doctor cleared him for light activity. He promised he’d take it easy.”
“He says a lot of things. Like ‘I’m fine’ when he’s got a 103-degree fever. Or ‘I can handle it’ while ignoring a whole ruptured tendon. What’s next? Playing goalie with one lung and a popsicle stick?”
Despite myself, I snort. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.”
“And you always let that boy get away with murder when he pouted at you,” she huffs. “Lord, give me strength. That boy wouldn’t know easy if it smacked him upside the head with a pillow and a cardiologist’s note.”
“You want me to write that on a Post-it and stick it to his water bottle?”
“No. I want you to tell him to call his mother before I show up with a folding chair and park it in front of the net until he does.”
“Now that I would pay to see.” I grin, biting my lip.
There’s a beat of quiet on the line before her tone softens. “How are you holding up, baby girl? You sound tired.”
I lean back in my chair, pressing the heel of my hand into my temple. “I’m okay. Just… managing.”
“Hmm. I hear that tone. That’s the ‘managing everyone but yourself’ tone.”
My smile falters slightly, but I don’t respond because she’s right, as always.
I glance down at the piles of papers littering my desk—half-filled out payroll forms I was supposed to have input before 5:00 p.m. today—and realize I haven’t done a single thing since Beau arrived a few hours ago.
Ever since he walked into the arena, I’ve been circling him like a nervous satellite, pretending I’m not checking his posture, his stamina, or the color in his face every thirty seconds.
“I know you love him,” she adds, quieter now. “And I know he’s as stubborn as a mule with something to prove. But he’s grown, Alise. Let him make his mistakes. You don’t have to carry both your hearts at once.”
“I’m not—” I start, but she makes a sound that shuts me up.
“I’ve known you since you were a little thing in jelly sandals and a glittery tutu, bossing around every boy in the neighborhood with a popsicle in one hand.”
“He won’t talk to you. He won’t talk to Cooper. He barely talks to me unless it’s laced with sarcasm and charm.”
“That’s how all the Hendrix men communicate: sarcasm, hockey, and homemade barbecue.
And when the stakes are high? They clam up tighter than a church lady’s purse.
” She snorts. “Talking means admitting something’s wrong.
And if something’s wrong, he might have to sit out.
And if he has to sit out, he might have to look in the mirror and ask himself who he is without hockey. ”
“He won’t even look me in the eye when I ask how he’s feeling.” I sigh loudly, clutching the phone tighter to my ear. “I just want him to stop pretending he’s bulletproof.”
“I know you do, Alise. That’s why I called you and not him.” Her voice softens the way it always does when she senses I’m near the edge. “You’ve been looking out for Beau for a while now, but don’t let that turn you into his emotional EMT. You’re allowed to let go of the stretcher sometimes.”
I stare down at the ink smeared across the corner of my notes, where my hand had been trembling earlier. “He scared me.”
“He scared me, too.” A safe silence stretches between us before she continues. “You need anything? Hot meal? Nap? Jesus?”
I laugh, and it comes out watery. “Mostly carbs and maybe a hug. A new nervous system, if you’ve got one lying around.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m fresh out. But I can make a mean pot of mac and cheese and threaten your man-child with bodily harm if he doesn’t call his mama before heading to the game.”
“You want me to put it in writing?” The words break on a shaky chuckle.
“No, I want him to call me, or I’m calling Cooper. We both know none of us wants to get him involved if we don’t have to.”
“That’s a low blow, Auntie Mel, but I’ll pass along the threat.”
“Good. And you take care of yourself. You’ve got that tired edge in your voice again—the one that says you’ve been running on caffeine and concern for three days straight.”
I swallow, throat thick. “I’m okay.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m Taylor Swift. Eat something that grew out of the ground, and get some sleep.”
“I love you, Auntie Mel.”
“Love you more. Tell that boy I said he’s not invincible, and neither are you.”
The call ends, but her words stay lodged under my skin like a splinter I can’t quite reach.
Beau slides to a stop beside Ford, tapping his stick on the ice as he mimics the correct way to get a slap shot. Ford says something, causing Beau to laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He’s out there pretending as if nothing ever happened.
Like his body didn’t betray him and his entire world didn’t crack open a little over a month ago.
He won’t talk about it; he just keeps showing up with that stubborn look on his face, skating like denial can outrun reality and silence can patch over the damage.
So, I’ll do what I always do. I keep things running at the rink while also keeping an eye on him.
Be the office manager with a desk full of overdue invoices, practice rosters, and a heart that hasn’t stopped pounding since the moment I found out he collapsed on the ice.
I tuck my phone into my pocket, forcing my legs to move. My stomach does that thing again, twisting and warning me that something’s still not right. Technically, I’m here to check on inventory in the med room and finish up payroll for this week, but everyone knows what I’m really still doing here.
The chill of the rink hits me as I slide my headphones over my ears, step through the side door, and sit on the bench. The air curls under my skin like it’s trying to remind me what cold really feels like. The sharp scent of ice and rubber and sweat rushes up to meet me.
The boys are already moving through passing drills, their blades carving smooth arcs into the surface as other parents watch from the stands.
I glance up and catch sight of Ramona perched up in the stands, Ford’s mom beside her with a travel mug the size of her head.
And then there he is: Beau Hendrix. Not in the net or suited up, but watching.
He stands with his arms crossed near the corner of the bench, one glove still in his hand, shoulders squared like he belongs exactly where he is.
But there’s a tension in him that doesn’t match the ease he’s trying to project.
His weight shifts off his left leg before going back again, like he’s testing his weight, or is he hiding something?
His jaw flexes when Ford misses a clean pass from Darius, and again when one of the newer players skates too wide on a turn.
It’s not frustration, but something deeper.
I know every part of him wants to be out there, showing them how it’s done.
Proving to them and everyone else that he’s still one of the best goaltenders in the league, but he can’t.
His hands curl into fists and release: one, two, three times.
I know that look on his face. It’s the same one he wore when he was fifteen and was sidelined with a busted ankle, trying not to cry in the locker room while pretending he didn’t care.
The same look he had in the hospital when he finally let himself fall apart.
“Hey,” I call, stepping up beside him. “Try not to give yourself an aneurysm just from glaring.”
“I’m not glaring. I’m observing.” He glances at me, the corner of his mouth tilting up.