Chapter 23 – Beau
Chapter Twenty-Three
Beau
Igrip the wheel, straighten my spine, and drive away like I’m not falling apart.
I don’t drive home or anywhere in particular.
I just keep moving, needing to stay in motion long enough so that none of it will catch me.
Not the word lupus. Not the way Dr. Conway said chronic like it was a weight I’d learn to carry.
Not the ache in my chest that’s got nothing to do with my body and everything to do with the door Alise didn’t open.
I keep driving past Momma’s house. Past Alise’s favorite coffee shop. Past the corner where I almost kissed her that one time, shifting to press my lips to her forehead instead, hoping she couldn’t feel my heart trying to beat out of my chest.
My phone buzzes once on the seat beside me, but I don’t check it.
If it’s Alise, I won’t be able to lie. She’ll know the minute I open my mouth that something is wrong.
I just need to practice hiding this, burying this secret deep inside so that even I don’t believe it is true.
Then I can talk to her, show up for her as I promised.
If it’s not Alise, I can’t do that to someone else either.
It’s the perfect damned if I do, damned if I don’t situation, making it even easier to ignore the call as I pull into the arena’s players-only entrance.
I tell myself I’m fine and this is exactly where I need to be right now.
That I just need to move around and be useful, using this time to get used to my new normal.
The doctor never said I couldn’t play hockey again, so I need to get myself back into playing condition.
To be ready to hop back on the ice the minute the team needs me.
The parking lot is half-full, practice already in motion. I throw the truck in park and sit there a beat too long, staring through the windshield like it might give me something—clarity, numbness, an out. It doesn’t.
I pull up my hood and climb out of my truck, grabbing the bag I keep in the back just in case.
I walk through the rear entrance like nothing’s changed, and I didn’t just walk out of a clinic with my entire life redefined and repackaged in a paper pamphlet I still haven’t opened.
The Timberwolves’ logo on the locker room door greets me like it always does, but today, it feels heavier.
The eyes of our mascot look down on me as if it knows I’m lying, but I ignore it and swipe my keycard.
I walk into the locker room, head held high, like I belong there.
Because I do. If I’m going to hold it together, this is where I do it.
The locker room is loud and blessedly normal. It smells of sweat, menthol, and wet gear, which is both comforting and gross in the way only a hockey locker room can be. Sticks thud against stalls as a couple of my teammates argue about music. It’s beautiful, distracting chaos.
“Look what the goalie dragged in,” Tyree calls from across the room, grinning like he hasn’t noticed I’m two seconds from cracking.
He’s already half in gear, tape in hand, and that smug smirk loaded and ready as if he’s been waiting for someone to verbally spar with. Tyree Jackson is our second-line right wing and part-time menace who moves through the world like everything’s a little funny, especially when it shouldn’t be.
Built like he was born to bulldoze people into the boards, he’s all shoulders and thick forearms wrapped in pre-wrap, a permanent layer of sweat glistening on his copper-brown skin.
He has cropped curls, but one rebellious twist sticks up like it’s flipping off the laws of gravity, and honestly, yeah, that checks out.
His smile is crooked and lethal, one brow permanently arched like he’s forever skeptical of your life choices, including mine.
“You look like shit, man.”
His voice is loud enough to cut through the chaos, cocky enough to pass as teasing, but there’s a flicker behind his eyes, like he’s clocked something deeper and doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping my bag onto the bench like it weighs more than it should. “Great to be here.”
He squints, one brow arched like he’s mentally adding things up. “You sleep?”
“No.”
“You eat?”
I shake my head, and he exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh.
“You gonna puke?”
“Probably.”
“Cool. I’ll keep a safe radius. I’ve already had enough trauma for the week.”
I manage a ghost of a smile; it cracks at the corners before it ever lands.
Tyree doesn’t press; he keeps talking about protein bar thefts, locker room nonsense, and someone’s god-awful taste in music.
It’s everything I need and nothing I can say thank you for because his voice fills the cracks before the cold can settle in, and I know if he stops, I’ll shatter.
I sit down and start suiting up, slow and methodical, like I’m wading through molasses.
Every strap feels too tight. Every pad digs in wrong.
My body doesn’t fit right inside the armor I’ve worn for years, but it’s too heavy now.
My hands won’t stop trembling. My joints ache with a dull, persistent throb.
My hips, my knees, my shoulders are all screaming like I’ve been through a war and just forgot about it until now, but no one notices.
I flex my fingers inside my gloves, stretching and breathing through the pain, before sliding on my helmet, pulling the mask down, and heading toward the rink. It’s showtime.
I step onto the ice, and for half a second, it almost feels normal.
The air bites cold against my skin. The familiar chill seeps through my gear, grounding me.
The sharp hiss of blades and the thunk of pucks echo across the rink.
The rhythm of it settles somewhere in my chest like a heartbeat I can follow.
I fall into drills like it’s nothing, tapping the current goaltender on the shoulder and letting him know there is a shift change.
He doesn’t question it, just gives me a pat on the shoulder and moves toward the bench.
I ready myself for the first shot, bracing for the pain that I know is coming, but there is none.
Block. Pivot. Recover. Push.
Every movement takes more than it gives, burns deeper than it should.
My vision pulses at the edges like a warning light I can’t afford to see, but I still move.
I push through it because I have to. If I just keep going, maybe no one will notice I’m holding my breath with every shift.
Maybe no one will realize this body, this machine I’ve trained and sharpened and bled for, is quietly turning on me.
“Beau?” a voice barks from the other end of the arena. “What the hell are you doing?”
I glance over my shoulder, mask half-down. Cooper is standing just off the boards, arms crossed, jaw tight, and eyes narrowed beneath the bill of his cap. I skate over, slow and steady, trying to keep my expression blank.
“Tell Coach to check his email,” I say, breathing tight in my chest. “My release is waiting for him.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He doesn’t say anything for a beat, just stares at me like he’s trying to read the fine print behind my eyes. I hold the stare. Eventually, he shakes his head and mutters something about paperwork before walking off.
I don’t let myself react to his disbelief; it’s warranted after all, but this time, it’s legit.
The release is technically real. It’s for practice only, just lke Dr. Conway said.
My hand twitches toward the bulge of the patch beneath my shirt, then drops fast before anyone notices.
She wanted more data before making any bigger calls, but I promised I’d be cautious.
A lie dressed in good intentions, but no one needs to know that part.
It’s just one more secret to bury that no one can dig it out.
I turn and push back into the crease. The throbbing in my knees grows sharper, but I stay. A slapshot slams into my pads. The impact rocks me back a step and knocks the air from my lungs, but I stay up. Barely.
“Nice one, Hendrix!” someone calls.
I lift my glove in acknowledgment, even though two of my fingers are numb and my ribs ache like they cracked under the hit.
After practice, I strip down in silence.
One piece of gear at a time. I let the exhaustion pool in my bones like cement.
I don’t fight it. Don’t resist. The shower water is scorching, but I don’t flinch.
I let it burn, scalding away everything I can’t afford to feel and drowning the part of me that’s still screaming.
By the time I’m back in the locker room, it’s mostly empty, just the hum of the overhead lights and the slow drip of someone’s leftover water bottle hitting tile.
I towel off and get dressed quickly, pulling my hoodie over damp skin before dropping onto the bench like it might break beneath me, and maybe I want it to.
My whole body thrums with exhaustion, not from drills, but from pretending.
Carrying my diagnosis like a secret bomb ticking beneath my skin, locking down every emotion so no one sees the cracks forming beneath the surface.
From telling everyone I’m fine and almost believing it.
I reach for my phone, finding no missed calls. A couple of texts from Cole asking if Alise has called yet and wanting to update the group chat, then one from Cooper:
Pain in the Ass #1
I’ll start on the paperwork to have you removed from IR. Welcome back, brother.
My fingers hover over Alise’s name and open our text thread, and my eyes widen in surprise.
Tiny Terror
You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know I’d wait forever if it meant you’d open the door again.
I thought I had deleted that message, leaving it unsent like every other message I started in the last twenty-four hours, but I didn’t. I sent it, letting her know my innermost thoughts, it being the only honest thing I’ve felt since yesterday, and now it sits there, unanswered.
I go to shove it back into my pocket, trying not to let the ache hollow me out, but then it buzzes. The sound slices straight through me, causing me to fumble the phone like an idiot, my hands suddenly too big and too desperate.
Tiny Terror
Cooper texted and said they removed you from the IR list. Congratulations!
Congratulations on telling a convincing lie, but then the three dots appear and disappear a few times. I grip the phone tightly, willing her to send another message, and then it appears like magic.
Tiny Terror
Beau. Are you okay?
My heart stutters—violently. I stare at it like it might disappear if I breathe wrong, like it might not be real.
The ice I’ve been skating on all day—thin, cracked, breaking—splinters beneath me.
The pieces shift, but I remain standing even as my chest seizes and my lungs forget how to work.
Every cell in my body screams, Tell her the truth, but I already know what I’ll do.
I’ll text her back, make her laugh, and tell her I’m fine.
Alise needs me to love her when I’m whole, but I’ll never be that way again.
So I’ll fake it and pray she never sees the cracks.