Chapter 13 – Beau
Chapter Thirteen
Beau
The locker room is a mess of voices, wet towels, and very loud music.
Someone’s got a speaker balanced on a bench, blasting that same obnoxious EDM remix they’ve played after every win since preseason.
Guys are shouting over each other, hyped on adrenaline and whatever the hell gave them just enough edge to pull off that last-minute comeback.
The whole place reeks of sweat, pine-scented soap, and Mack’s cologne, which might as well be pepper spray at this point.
Normally, I’d be in the thick of it. Letting the noise and chaos wrap around me like armor, but not tonight. Everything tonight is too much and not enough at the same time. It should feel like home, but instead, it feels like a vise around my chest.
“Hey, man!” Jace throws an arm around my shoulders, and I nearly bite my tongue from the sharp flash of pain that shoots through my side. A low, burning pulse like my ribs are being sawed open from the inside.
“Team win, baby! You see that third goal?”
“Hard to miss it,” I say, my voice thin as paper as I force a grin.
“Coop looked like he was ready to fight God when he stepped onto the bench before the third period,” someone calls from across the room.
“Not God. Mercer.” Crosby snorts, peeling off his gear. “I swear, I saw smoke coming out of the guy’s ears.”
The guys laugh, buzzing high on adrenaline and spite. Mercer’s blow-up was theater, and no one’s forgetting it anytime soon.
“Think it’s finally enough to get him canned?”
“We can dream.” I shrug, hoping it passes as casual, but inside I’m thinking, Please let this give the front office the leverage they need to fire his ass and get him out of our hair for good.
Mercer’s been a cancer in this room for too long.
Most of the guys tiptoe around it, but not Cooper.
He stood up tonight, and people saw it. There’s no way to spin Mercer’s tantrum after a win, and yet, I can’t bring myself to celebrate.
Not when I’m still hearing the echo of the doctor’s voice from this morning.
“There’s definitely something going on with your heart, Beau. The irregularities in your bloodwork, the arrhythmias on your ECG… it’s not nothing.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, my stomach immediately dropping.
“It means we need more tests. You’re also going to need to wear a cardiac event monitor or CAM for the next thirty days so we can track what’s happening outside this room.
It’s about the size of a patch, worn on your chest. It records every blip and every skipped beat, whether you’re asleep, working out, or in the middle of a game.
” The doctor holds my gaze, steady but not unkind.
“It’ll tell us if your heart is keeping up with you, or if it’s not. ”
“But I’ll be fine to play, right?”
The doctor pauses longer than I’d like before responding. “That depends on the results from the tests. Until we have a clearer picture of what is going on, I can’t give you a final diagnosis.”
I’ve been trying to outrun that conversation all day.
To prove to the doctor and myself that I’m fine.
The tests are wrong, and I’ll be able to play hockey again.
I smiled at the specialists, promising I’d fit the next appointment in “around playoffs,” like this was some minor thing.
Like my entire world didn’t shift two inches to the left the second I heard there was definitely something wrong with my heart and that my future in the league depends on the results.
I can admit to myself that I pushed myself too hard at the peewee practice earlier, doing a lot more than just following the kids around the ice, but I felt fine then.
Like nothing happened with my heart, proving the doctor wrong.
But the adhesive patch pressed against my chest keeps reminding me otherwise, tugging at my skin every time I move, catching sweat under the edge of my shirt like a brand I can’t shake.
How much longer until my next “episode” or until someone tells me I can never get back on the ice again?
No, I can’t think like that. I won’t. I need to be on the ice with my teammates.
I need it because without that, who the hell am I?
This is why I haven’t told anyone. Not Cooper.
Not Alise. Not even the team doc. Hell, the only one who knows I had an appointment is Momma, and I’d prefer to keep it that way.
So instead of telling anyone, I went through the day like it was business as usual.
I joked with the trainers before the game and slipped back into my routine like the weight on my chest wasn’t real and pressing harder with every breath.
I told myself it was just stress at the team’s current losing streak, but I know deep down it’s not just that.
Now, in the locker room, surrounded by my teammates and everything Mercer said, I can’t get back to that carefree feeling.
Especially since I’ve been clenching my fists to stop the shaking and blinking way too much to keep the blur from clouding my vision.
Even sitting on this damn bench hurts. There’s heat pooling behind my left knee, sharp and steady.
My spine’s screaming as indescribable fear claws at my ribs.
And beneath it all, the monitor sticks stubbornly to my skin, a silent witness recording every beat, every misstep, and every betrayal of the body I thought I could trust.
Fear that won’t just go away with a few deep breaths, but rather settles deep in your soul. Fear that the thing that’s carried me my whole life—this body, this game, this rhythm—might slip out of my reach.
“Let’s go, Timberwolves!” someone shouts from the back of the room, causing me to jump slightly, and the chant gets picked up instantly.
Sticks tap and fists bang against the lockers in time with the chant. Jace jumps onto the bench beside me, holding a Gatorade bottle like a trophy. “We’re coming back, baby! Cup run, let’s go!”
Everyone cheers except me, but I’ve got a bright smile plastered on my face.
I high-five everyone, pretending like this changes everything.
Like we didn’t just squeak by on borrowed adrenaline and a lucky bounce.
I don’t want to be here. I want to lie down somewhere dark and quiet and not move for an hour or a week.
I need time to figure out how to deal with the dread that now lives in my bones and whispers that this might be it.
“Hey, you heading out with us?” Browers’s voice is distant, like I’m hearing it through water.
“Nah, gonna hang back.”
“Are you sure you’re good?” Mackenzie frowns, his eyes scanning my face.
“Just tired.” The lie tastes sour in my mouth, but it works.
They accept it like they always do, with a nod or a soft pat on the back.
A few more jokes are tossed over shoulders as the locker room thins out, steam rising from the showers and gear bags slung over tired arms. One by one, they drift out toward their nights, their people, their lives still intact.
I stay planted on the bench, jaw tight and every breath like dragging air through molasses.
The pain is spreading slowly and cruelly through my body.
A coil behind my knee, fire licking up my spine, and that awful flutter in my chest that’s not adrenaline and not effort but something darker.
Something I can’t name. I focus on keeping my hands still and my face blank.
On not curling in on myself when every cell in my body is screaming to lie down and disappear.
Then Cooper steps around the corner, already showered and in a pair of gray sweatpants and a Timberwolves hoodie, his expression tight as his eyes land on me. He sinks onto the bench beside me with a low grunt, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” I keep my voice even. “Hell of a third period there, Cap.”
“Someone had to do something. Mercer was tanking the entire game with his attitude.”
I nod slowly and carefully. My whole left side is on fire, a grinding pain like something’s tearing loose every time I breathe. “Think that was the final nail?”
“Oh, it was the whole damn coffin.” Cooper leans forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m talking to the front office first thing tomorrow. He’s done.”
I want to say good riddance. I want to agree to join him in that righteous fire, but my voice is stuck somewhere between my throat and the dull, persistent ache pulsing through my chest because I can still hear Mercer’s voice, low and venomous in my ear.
Cooper glances at me like he already knows. “What did he say to you?”
I hesitate because I don’t want to give the words echoing through my head anything more power, but I tell him anyway. “He leaned in and said, ‘If you’re gonna ride IR like a glorified mascot, at least stay the hell out of the way.’”
Cooper’s head snaps toward me, his hand flexing on his knee. “He said that?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus.” His entire frame goes rigid. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“So you could punch him in front of a packed arena?” I try for lightness, but it comes out strained.
“You’ve been playing through whatever is going on for a while now. And that asshole—” Cooper rubs a hand over his face. “He’s not just out of line. He’s dangerous.”
I don’t have the strength to argue with him or defend Mercer or myself or even pretend I’m okay anymore. Not really, but I’m not about to tell anyone else that.
“I’m fine, Cooper.”
“Stop saying you are fine because we both know you’re full of shit. You’ve been playing for months, feeling like shit, haven’t you?”
“You’d have done the same.” My chest tightens, but I make myself grin. “I’ve just got a better poker face than you.”
He huffs a laugh, then glances toward the door. “Heads up, Alise is here with Momma.”
“She is?”
“Yeah. Ramona said she was buried in wedding stuff because she accidentally booked appointments on a game day, but maybe she just missed you.” He shrugs, his eyes full of mischief.
That lands hard, but I keep my expression neutral. “I saw her earlier today, but I guess I’m just that charming.”
“We both know your charm has nothing to do with it.” Cooper pushes to his feet before clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t stay back here hiding for too long or Momma is liable to come in here and get you.”
I only nod my head, caught between wanting to hide away from everyone and making sure Momma and Alise aren’t too worried about me because no matter what, I know those two are worrying.
The energy in the locker room has faded to a low buzz now that everyone has gone out to the press area, to their families, or disappeared to celebrate tonight’s win.
Good, because I can’t stomach any more congratulations tonight.
Not when it feels like my body’s short-circuiting from the inside out.
I sat in the same spot on the bench all night, tucked into the far corner, half in shadow.
I never even touched the ice, but it feels like I went through every shift with them.
Every blocked shot, every failed clear, every breathless second of the team’s last-minute comeback.
I was there, but not in it, just a ghost on the bench.
I peel off my hoodie, the fabric sticking to my skin, which is damp with sweat I didn’t earn.
The adhesive patch of the cardiac monitor tugs with it, pulling at the tender spot beneath my collarbone.
I bite back a curse as the edge catches and then settles again, cool plastic pressed flat against skin that already feels raw.
For a second, I glance around, half-expecting someone to notice the outline beneath my shirt.
No one does, but the paranoia sticks like a shadow.
I swipe a towel across the back of my neck.
The movement pulls at something deep in my shoulder—sharp, hot, fleeting—and I grit my teeth through it.
My skin’s cold and clammy, like I’ve just come down with something, and my muscles don’t feel like mine.
Everything is tight and heavy, like I’m walking through syrup.
Even the simple act of breathing has weight to it.
And the worst part isn’t the pain itself; it’s the warning before it hits.
The low, steady thrum crawling behind my joints and pulsing in my chest, the signal that something worse is coming.
I’ve been here before. This is what my body feels like when it’s about to betray me.
I rest my arms on my knees and bow my head, eyes closed long enough to rebuild the walls around me that keep the pain from showing on my face every time I move.
The walls keep everyone on the outside, never knowing whether I’m all right, because that’s the way it needs to be.
If anyone knew how bad it’s getting—how much I’ve been hiding—they’d start looking at me differently.
Hell, I’m looking at myself differently.
The monitor shifts when I reach down and grab my hoodie, the edges tugging against skin slick with sweat as I pull it back over my head with trembling fingers.
I flex my hands and shake them out before ensuring everything is the way it should be.
My armor is firmly in place, the hoodie hiding the hard outline of the device from curious eyes.
But I move too fast, and pain flares behind my ribs, sharp enough to steal my breath.
I hold still, counting to five with my eyes squeezed shut until the worst of it passes.
Then I press a fist to my sternum and rub gently, feeling the hard outline of the patch beneath my palm as I try to ease the tight, fluttering pressure I’ve felt in my chest since the second period.
It’s not exertion or stress, but something else, and I know it.
The doctor hinted at there being something seriously wrong, but I don’t want to believe it yet. Not until I know for sure.
I inhale deeply before forcing myself to smile and heading for the locker room door. Momma and Alise are probably smiling, waiting for me to come out with jokes about the win. To pretend I wasn’t a statue on the bench all game, and there’s nothing wrong.
I rub my face hard with both hands before raising my chin and reaching for the door, mask firmly in place just long enough to make it through the rest of the night without falling apart.