Chapter 14 – Alise #2
He doesn’t look at me or say anything, just shifts his weight like he’s trying to find a position that doesn’t hurt but fails.
Then I see it. That tiny tremor in his left hand.
The way his spine stiffens like a board, rigid with pain.
The flicker of something just beneath the surface that he can’t quite hide anymore.
“There’s something wrong.”
His head snaps to mine, eyes wide like a cornered animal. “I’m fi—” He swallows the word. “It’s not too bad.”
“Then why do you look like you’re one breath away from collapsing?”
His eyes blaze for half a second, full of both pride and anger, but then the fire dies, and he looks away.
“Beau,” I whisper. “Why didn’t you tell me about the appointment?”
“Because it wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was,” I snap, louder now. “If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be hiding out here like a ghost. You wouldn’t be limping. You wouldn’t be lying to everyone who cares about you.”
“I didn’t want to dump it on you,” he bites out, his jaw tightening slightly.
“You’ve been running around like you’re invincible—taking care of Aunt Peggy, juggling everyone at the rink, wedding planning with Ramona.
Do you even hear yourself anymore? You don’t stop.
You don’t breathe. You’re already holding everyone else’s world together, Alise. ”
“I’m not made of glass, Beau.”
“No, you’re just stretching yourself so thin, I can see daylight through you,” he says bitterly.
His hand twitches to the hem of his hoodie again, tugging it lower as he shifts a step back, the motion sharp and defensive, like he’s protecting something I can’t see.
“And I won’t be one more thing that snaps you in half. ”
I step back as if he physically shoved me. “This isn’t about me!”
“Yes, it is!” His voice cracks like thunder.
Heads whip in our direction. Conversations down the hallway die mid-sentence, the buzz of post-game celebration replaced by stunned silence.
I feel every pair of eyes land on us like someone has yanked me into a spotlight I never asked for.
Heat crawls up my neck as embarrassment curls low in my gut, sour and sharp, feeding the fire already blazing in my chest. He’s making a scene.
I’m part of the scene. And worst of all, I don’t even know how to fix it.
“It is,” he says again, quieter now, but still cutting deep. “When you act like I’m one more task on your goddamn to-do list. Something to manage. Like I have to schedule my pain around your burnout.”
I flinch hard. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I didn’t mean to make him feel that way, but now, under everyone’s eyes, with his grief and my guilt, I don’t know how to convince him otherwise.
The words hit harder than anything I’ve ever heard.
My chest feels like it’s caving in on itself, my hand grasping at my shirt, hoping to lessen the pain from the blow of his words hitting me right in the center of my chest. Beau’s eyes widen slightly, like maybe he didn’t mean to say that.
Or maybe he did. Either way, he doesn’t take it back.
“Beau, you are not a task to me. You are not a chore or a burden or some checkbox—”
He shakes his head, the motion stiff and sharp. “Doesn’t matter. You didn’t notice I was slipping until I almost hit the ground. No one did, because no one cared.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Life’s not fair,” he mutters, already turning.
Beau doesn’t wait for a response. He just turns and walks away, broad shoulders stiff, disappearing down the hallway like he can’t get away fast enough.
I want to run after him, to scream that he doesn’t understand, but I can’t move.
Not with the way my heart feels like it’s splintering in my chest. Not with the heat of all those eyes still on me and the echo of his voice ringing in my head.
I stand frozen, breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
My face is on fire as the hallways come back to life, the cheers and chattering rising again like nothing happened.
But for me? Everything just fell apart. And the worst part is, I’m terrified that no matter what I do now, it’s already too late.
It’s only as his figure disappears around the corner that I realize how many times he tugged at his hoodie tonight, how often he angled himself away from me, like he was shielding more than just his pride. The thought gnaws at me, sharp and insistent, but I shove it down before it can take root.
“Hey, sweetheart.” A soft voice pulls me back to the moment. It’s Nina, the wife of one of the defensemen, offering me a reassuring look and a hand on my arm. “You okay?”
The sting behind my eyes threatens to spill over, but I won’t cry. Not here. Not now. Instead, I force a tight smile. “Yeah. Just… tired. Long week.”
She nods like she understands and didn’t just witness me unraveling in the middle of a hallway like a dropped ball of yarn. “If you need anything, we’re all here, okay?”
“Thanks,” I murmur, already pulling away, aching to be alone.
As soon as I round the corner and duck into an empty corridor, the mask crumbles.
My hands clench into fists as I allow the sadness to choke me for a second, but it quickly burns off, leaving only heat.
And just like that, I’m marching, angry and determined, toward the exit.
I don’t even fully know where I’m going, but my feet do.
I’m not letting him have the last word. Not this time.
The knock is so faint I almost miss it. Just a soft tap, like someone second-guessed even being here.
I wipe my hands on my pajama pants and pull the door open, already halfway through a mental list of why someone is knocking on my door. I didn’t think the pizza would get here that quickly. Ramona? Maybe a neighbor needs something.
But it’s none of those things. It’s Beau, and the moment my eyes lock with his, everything inside me stills.
He’s barefoot on the doormat, hunched over like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. His hoodie clings to him, soaked at the collar, his curls damp with sweat. One arm cradles his side like something’s broken or close to it.
“Jesus,” I breathe. “What happened?”
“I’m fine,” he rasps, barely lifting his head.
He’s not. God, not even by a long shot.
“You look like shit.”
He tries to smile, but it wobbles and falls apart. “Took a weird hit at practice. No big deal.”
“Are you kidding me?” I step forward and grab his elbow before he can argue. “Why didn’t you go to the trainer or, better yet, go home and see Auntie Mel?”
He tries to shrug, but the movement hits him hard. His whole body jerks, folding over with a groan that tears out of him like it had to fight through pain just to escape.
“Beau!” I catch his arm, heart racing. “Sit down. Here. Now.”
He stumbles past me and drops onto the edge of the couch like the air’s too heavy to breathe. His hands fist the comforter as I try to look into his eyes, but he turns away from me. I kneel in front of him, brushing his sweaty curls off his forehead, my fingers shaking. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s not a fever,” he says hoarsely. “Just… pain. It comes in waves.”
“You’re trembling.” My voice cracks with panic. “This isn’t normal. We need to go to the ER—”
“No.” His answer is fast, desperate. “I just… I need to rest. I just want to be here. With you, but I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
I stare at him, disbelief crashing into me like a wave. “This isn’t making a big deal?”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he says, quieter now, like it hurts to admit. “You’ve got your internship, exams, driving Aunt Peggy to her million and one appointments. I didn’t want to be another problem to solve.”
I freeze in place; the words hit in places I didn’t even know were raw.
“You didn’t call me or tell me you were in pain,” I say slowly, each word tasting more bitter than the last. “You just showed up at my door, looking like you got hit by a truck, and your first thought was how not to inconvenience me?”
“I didn’t know what else to do.” His voice is so quiet it’s barely audible.
“Talk to me,” I snap, the anger sharp and sudden, covering the ache underneath. “Let me show up for you, Beau. You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle.”
“I thought I was protecting you.” His eyes lift, wet and full of something I can’t name.
“No.” My voice breaks, choking on the word. “You were protecting yourself from being seen as weak. There is nothing weak about being vulnerable. That’s not protecting anyone; it’s hiding.”
His eyes shine wet in the low light, and tears slip down his cheek and disappear into the dark fabric of his hoodie.
“I’m not trying to hide away from you or anyone, but everyone else is going through so much.
I just want to be there for them. To be the strong one to help them weather the storm, but sometimes… ”
“You want someone to do that for you.” I slide my hand into his, pressing it to my chest so he can feel how fast my heart is racing. For him, always for him.
“You do that for me, Lisey.” His voice breaks, tears spilling silently down his cheeks like he’s too used to suffering in silence to make a sound. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But every time you try to do everything alone, you’re hurting me all over again.”
I reach for him, sliding my hand over his, feeling the tremor there, the heat of him. “You don’t have to. Not with me.”
He says nothing, but he threads his fingers through mine and squeezes, like I’m the last solid thing in a world that keeps knocking him down. I grip his hand tightly in mine because I don’t care how heavy things get. I will help him carry the load, even if it breaks me.
The memory hits me like a slap. I can still feel the sweat on his skin, the way his fingers shook when he finally let go.
I begged him not to shut me out again and carry his pain like some kind of penance he has to suffer in silence.
And yet here we are. Same man, same pride, and the same goddamn walls between us I’ve been trying to tear down for years.
Only now, we’re older. We’ve survived and shared too much with each other over the years. And I’m not that girl on the living room floor anymore, desperate for him to let me in. Now, I’m pissed.
Hot, indignant anger floods my chest, shoving aside the embarrassment and ache from earlier.
He doesn’t get to make me feel like a villain in my life.
He doesn’t get to weaponize his pain and throw it at me like I asked for it.
No, he’s an adult. A brilliant, infuriating, emotionally constipated adult.
If he wants to pick a fight with me in the middle of a crowded hallway, then he’d better be ready to finish it because I’m not letting him have the last word.
My boots echo against the concrete as I storm through the parking lot toward my car, every step like a war drum.
I know exactly where he’s gone. Exactly what stupid, lonely corner of his condo he’s sulking in.
God so fucking help him if he doesn’t open the door because I’ve got something to say, and I’m not walking away until I’ve said all of it.