Chapter 12 – Alise
Chapter Twelve
Alise
Ican faintly hear the second-period horn through my headphones as I hurry through the VIP entrance towards our seats, arms full, hair frizzing from the wind, and boots damp from sprinting across the slushy parking lot.
My fingers are numb, my thighs are burning, and I’m still wearing the bakery apron I forgot to take off after the cake tasting. So, yeah, totally killing it.
Of course, we couldn’t be sitting in the VIP suite today.
That would be way too easy. Of all days, today Ramona has decided she wants to sit closer to the action.
All close and personal with the ice. She said something about wanting to be able to hear the announcer better, but I have a feeling it has more to do with her wanting to look at Cooper’s ass during warm-ups.
Ramona spots me first, jumping up from her seat by the glass and waving like she’s trying to flag down a taxi in midtown traffic. “Oh, she lives!”
I stumble toward her, the arena lights a little too bright and the roar of the crowd crashing through my already-fried nerves. My arms are trembling from the weight of the pastry bags, but I lift them like they’re Olympic medals. “I brought almond pastries! And also possibly a stress fracture.”
Ramona reaches for the bags, but I hold tight for a beat too long, like surrendering them means I’ll fall apart, which causes her to frown. “You look wrecked.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, even though my shoulders are cramping and there’s a new blister blooming on my heel. “Just a little winded from my sprint through the parking lot.”
“You should’ve let me come with you,” she says, brushing her fingers across my forehead like she’s trying to fix the mess with tenderness. “I planned to drop Beau off at the players’ gate and meet you for the appointment.”
I shake my head, trying to summon the energy for a smile. “And risk Cooper’s wrath if you weren’t here for puck drop? No fucking way.”
Ramona arches a brow. “Alise.”
“I know.” I sigh. “I overcommitted, but it’s my fault. I scheduled the appointments, forgetting that today was a game day. I figured with Beau not playing…”
“It slipped your mind.” Her expression softens along with her voice.
I nod, swallowing down the lump in my throat. The truth is, it didn’t slip. I just keep thinking I can do it all. That if I move fast enough and take care of everyone else, I won’t have to stop long enough to feel how tired I really am.
“We all know you only have eyes for one Hendrix brother.”
“Mona,” I groan, dragging out the syllables, but my cheeks flush anyway. Not just from the jab, but because she’s not wrong.
I sink into the seat beside her, the cushion doing little to stop the ache in my spine.
Thankfully, the roar of the crowd is muffled by my headphones.
The last thing I need is to add a migraine and panic attack to my list of aliments right now.
My body slumps forward, elbows on my knees and head in my hands, as I allow the game to fade into the background.
I’m exhausted. The kind of bone-deep tiredness that doesn’t come from running errands or skipping lunch, but from holding too many things together for too long.
Now, in the middle of a crowded arena, with Ramona watching me like she sees right through me, I feel it creeping in.
The embarrassment, shame, and echoing fear that maybe I’m not as capable as I pretend to be.
I rub my palms against my eyes, trying to shake it off, but the image that flashes behind my lids isn’t the arena or the to-do list I haven’t finished; it’s Beau.
A few hours ago, alone at the rink, the world had felt still for the first time all day.
The complaints of the boys as they completed their punishment laps.
His voice, low and gravelly, when he said my name.
The way the tip of his nose grazed mine as he leaned forward, and that almost-kiss.
If Darius hadn’t interrupted us, if I hadn’t stepped away from him like I was on fire, if either of us had been braver, what would’ve happened?
I blink, and the crowd roars, causing me to flinch slightly, as the Timberwolves rush the net. But instead of focusing on what is happening on the ice, all I can think about is how close I came to unraveling in Beau’s arms, in front of everyone.
“For someone so exhausted, you sure move fast,” Auntie Mel grumbles as she slides past me, planting a kiss on Ramona’s cheek. “Now give me one of those pastries. I’m starving.”
“You could’ve stayed home, you know,” I grumble, grabbing a pastry from the bag before passing it to Ramona. “Not that we don’t love you being here, but you weren’t planning on coming to the game.”
“I wasn’t, but a certain stubborn son of mine came and didn’t inform me. I haven’t seen him since his appointment this morning. I want to know what the doctor said.” Auntie Mel removes her coat with practiced grace. “You say he’s fine, Alise, but I need to see and hear it with my own eyes.”
“Wait, he had a doctor’s appointment this morning?” I groan, taking a large bite, the flaky crust practically melting in my mouth, making me almost forget that Beau omitted that information earlier.
“He didn’t tell you, did he?” Auntie Mel questions, settling into the seat on my other side with the poise of royalty. “I’m not surprised. All of us can see that you are burning the candle at both ends. You two and your need to protect each other from your problems.”
“Man, she has you two pegged.” Ramona cackles.
“Don’t encourage her.” I groan, unlacing my boots under the seat. “I’m holding it together with Sol de Janeiro Cheirosa 62 and willpower right now.”
“Is that why you smell like salted caramel?”
“Don’t knock it. It could be much worse. I got hit with the florist’s rosewater spray and have smelled like a haunted wedding ever since.”
“That’s why your coat smells like a funeral parlor!”
“Hey,” I say, mock-offended. “This is stress couture.”
“Baby girl, you’re one itinerary away from spontaneous combustion.” Auntie Mel hums, taking a bite from her pastry.
Ramona leans in with a raised brow. “You sure you still wanna do this all by yourself? I will absolutely hire a wedding planner tomorrow.”
I wave her off. “No way. This is what besties are for. Besides, half the damn state’s gonna show up for your wedding. Someone has to keep the spreadsheets honest.”
“It’s not that many people.”
“You invited both mayors.”
“They’re friends of the family,” Auntie Mel chimes in, patting Ramona on the hand in support.
“And the entire Timberwolves staff?”
“Well, yeah. Duh.” Ramona shrugs, rolling her eyes.
“You two are ridiculous.” Auntie Mel rolls her eyes before turning her attention to the ice.
“We just want the people who care about us there for our special day.” Ramona smirks.
“So, the entire state of Oregon.”
“Exactly.”
Laughter bubbles between us, warm and familiar, but I can’t stop myself from glancing toward the bench for the first time.
Beau is sitting at the end of the bench, looking completely out of place without his gear on.
Instead of his usual demeanor, chirping at his teammates on the bench, he’s slouched low, with his hood pulled up over his head.
Not just resting there, but pulled low, like a curtain drawn closed and like he wants to disappear.
His face is mostly hidden, shadowed by the hood and the glare of the rink lights, but I can still see the edge of his jaw, clenched tight.
The muscles are ticking there like he’s chewing on something he can’t swallow.
His shoulders are rounded in, arms propped on his knees, and hands slack between them.
Even in that stillness, he hums with tension like a wire drawn taut enough to snap.
I can feel it from the opposite side of the rink, like a storm building in the distance.
The kind that hums through your teeth right before the lightning hits.
Coach Mercer paces in front of the bench, red-faced and fuming, as he storms toward Beau.
He leans down and whispers something in his ear, and Beau doesn’t flinch outwardly, but the way his shoulders draw in makes it look like the words hollowed him out from the inside.
He doesn’t say a word. He just sits there, ramrod straight, as Mercer turns to the team—not just the players on the ice, but everyone on the bench—and shouts, “If you girls want to skate like peewees, maybe I should start dressing somebody who can actually focus!”
There’s nothing but pure venom in every syllable. A collective gasp ripples through the levels as the crowd attempts to make sense of what just happened.
“What the hell?” Ramona hisses.
“He did not just say that,” Auntie Mel says flatly, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.
Cooper’s already moving toward the door leading to the bench, each movement deliberate. His jaw flexes as he steps through the door, standing skate to toe with Mercer.
Mercer throws his hands up like he’s the victim. “You wanna play sentimental favorites, be my guest. But don’t expect a miracle out of a team of washed-up wannabes and a starting goalie with a medical file thicker than our playbook.”
The arena murmurs again, louder this time, and a few people even boo this time, but Beau stays seated, with his hood pulled up and his head down, not even a flicker of recognition of what Coach Mercer just said.
Instead, he seems to curl further into himself, trying to make himself smaller, even more invisible.
I can’t stop staring at him, jaw clenched and mouth pressed into a hard line.
I can see just enough of his profile now to catch the shadows under his eyes, bruised and hollowed out from too many sleepless nights.
He looks like he’s trying to disappear inside himself, and it wrecks me.
I know that feeling too well, what it means to hide in plain sight.
To smile through the spiral while surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.
Cooper breathes in through his nose, chest rising. His voice comes out calm, but thunderous. “That’s enough.”
Silence falls. Even from up here, I can hear the steel in his voice.
“We don’t need a miracle. All we need is each other. And we won’t find that in a coach who publicly humiliates his team instead of leads it.”
A shock wave rolls through the crowd. A few people even clap as the shrill sound of a whistle pierces through the heaviness in the air from somewhere in the lower section, signalling the start of the third period.
Mercer scoffs before storming off across the ice toward the tunnel, slamming the door behind him hard enough to shake the boards.
Cooper turns to the team, every player on the bench looking at him like he’s gravity. “We get one shift at a time. One clean pass. One smart play. We’re not done.”
A few heads nod, and one of the defensemen—Mack, I think—slaps his stick against the boards. And just like that, the Timberwolves shift forward, shoulders straightening and energy clicking back into place.
The game resets, but I don’t take my eyes off Beau. He’s still sitting in the same position, shoulders rolled forward, one hand on the back of his neck. It’s brief, barely more than a second, before Cooper leans forward and whispers something in Beau’s ear.
“He didn’t deserve that,” I whisper.
“No, he didn’t,” Auntie Mel says, her voice quieter than I’ve ever heard it.
“I swear to God, if I had skates on, I’d take him out at the knees,” Ramona growls.
“Right after I get his ass fired,” Auntie Mel replies with terrifying calm.
I’m not listening to either of them because Beau hasn’t snapped or slammed anything against the boards like he used to when he was younger, angrier, and full of fire.
He’s just sitting there, taking it, and that hurts more than if he’d shouted back.
And no one seems to see it but me. The puck drops, and the crowd roars again, but the sound is distant now.
The Timberwolves surge forward, fast and hungry for a win under Cooper’s direction. I watch them in my periphery, but my eyes keep drifting back to Beau, completely invisible to the rest of the world except me. All I can think is: if I were down there… would he look up?