Chapter 29 – Beau #2
“Careful, rookie,” I say, grinning. “You’ll need a nap after I shut you out.”
The banter helps anchor me, and I make the next save count—solid glove, decent angle. Then another. And another, but each one costs me more than they should.
My muscles feel syrup-thick. The ache behind my eyes sharpens, rhythmic now, like a drumbeat out of sync.
I’m sweating, but not the kind that cools you down.
My skin prickles cold beneath the gear, like my body can’t figure out what temperature it wants to be.
And my chest—fuck. It tightens, slow and deliberate, like something is curling inside it.
Not pain or panic, just pressure like I’m being hollowed out from the inside.
I roll my shoulders. Shift my weight. Breathe in deep, hold, release.
It’s just a bad day; they happen sometimes.
I’ve also had worse. I’m probably dehydrated.
I haven’t been drinking water like Parker told me to.
I should get on that after practice. I’ll feel ten times better if I do everything Parker and the doctor tell me.
This is nothing. My fault for being hardheaded.
The coach calls for the next drill, and I get into position, trying not to notice the way my hands tremble inside my gloves. I press down harder on my stick. I need to focus. Everything is fine. It has to be fine.
Yesterday, Alise laughed and looked at me like she didn’t want to run.
She let me sit close to her on the bench while we watched the kids practice.
She didn’t flinch away when I reached for her hand.
She let me kiss her temple when she said goodbye.
I’m sick, but I am whole, just like Alise wants, so we can be together.
That can’t be undone. I won’t let it be.
The puck drops, and the slapshot sails wide and smashes off the glass. I blink a second too long, trying to reset.
“You good?” Bower calls.
“Yup.” My voice is steady. It’s always steadier in gear, hidden behind pads and a cage. Lying is easier when I’m dressed to stop pucks instead of answer questions. “Just catching my breath.”
“Maybe you’re finally getting old,” Jace whoops from across the zone. “Told you he’s getting old! We should order him a walker and a tube of Tiger Balm.”
I roll my eyes and give him the finger behind my blocker, and he laughs like he won.
I hold my breath, waiting for someone to take a closer look.
For someone to see the stumble in my body that I can feel but can’t quite hide.
But they don’t, or at least if they do, they keep it to themselves.
Either is good because I don’t want them to.
If they did, I’d have to explain. I don’t know how to say I think something’s wrong when I’m not ready for the answer myself.
It’s not bad enough to stop. Not bad enough to worry about. Not bad enough to raise any alarms. But it’s there, a pressure building under my ribs, a weight pressing from the inside out like my body is keeping secrets I can’t afford to name.
I go through the rest of practice on autopilot.
Save after save. They think I’m locked in and focused on practice, but I’m not.
I’m coasting on instinct, letting muscle memory wear the mask while my body hums with something I don’t want to name.
The ache in my chest pulses quieter now, dulled beneath adrenaline and denial, but it’s not gone.
When the final horn sounds, I head right for the locker room and peel off my gear like the tension will come off right with it. Everything’s too heavy. My jersey sticks to my back, soaked through with sweat that isn’t from exertion—it’s warning. A cold, clammy kind of wrong that clings to my skin.
Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Repeat.
The world doesn’t spin. My legs hold steady. That should feel like victory, but it only gives me borrowed time.
Jace chirps something about my “senior citizen stamina,” and I force a laugh.
Not too hard. Don’t cough. Don’t wince.
I towel off, stand tall, and continue to move like nothing is different.
Not straining too hard for anyone to notice, acting just normal enough to pass.
I can’t admit it. I can’t let them know that this all might be too much.
If I so much as think the word flare-up, I might lose the ground I’ve gained.
I can’t. Not now, when things are finally good.
Not when I’m almost happy. Not when I almost have her.
So I grit my teeth and lie with my smile, my body, and my silence. If I pretend long enough, it’ll go away. And if it doesn’t? Well, that’s future me’s problem.
The lights are brutal tonight. Hot, sharp, and burning down through the rafters like twin suns.
The air in the arena is dry and thick with noise.
Our fans are on their feet, pounding the glass and screaming our names.
It’s the energy that used to light me up, but right now, it feels like it’s pressing me down.
I crouch low in the crease, tracking the puck as it moves through the neutral zone. My heart’s already racing, and not in the good, locked-in way. It’s pounding too fast, too loud. My vision blurs slightly at the edges, like the ice is pulling away from me in slow motion.
Come on. Focus.
We’re up 2–1 in the third, and there are six minutes left on the clock.
I’ve made thirty-two saves tonight. I should feel confident that we can add another point in the win column, but I don’t.
My limbs feel disconnected and heavy, like my pads have gained ten pounds between periods.
I noticed a few saves ago that my glove hand is slower than usual.
I told myself it was just nerves, but the more time that ticks by, I know it’s not.
High above, the announcer’s voice blares through the arena, but the words are just a wash of static now. I can’t hear him anymore, unable to make out anything past the thunder of blood in my ears.
“You still starry-eyed from that kiss, Hendrix? You’ve gotta let the girl breathe.” Crosby skates by on a shift change, dragging his stick behind him like a menace.
“Shut up.” I huff a laugh that burns in my lungs.
“Can’t,” he chirps. “You’re too dreamy these days. You smiled during warmup. It was weird.”
“Bet his glove hand’s all slow ‘cause he’s out here trying to impress his girl,’” Mackenzie adds. “He probably missed that goal cause he was planning on what to name their future kids and how to teach ‘em to stop pucks.”
My teammates are joking at my expense, so I should joke back.
But all I can do is nod because my hands won’t stop shaking, and my knees feel like they’re made of glass.
Every breath feels too fast and too shallow.
My ribs are closing in on themselves, like the laces on my chest protector are pulling tighter with each inhale.
“Let’s go, Hendrix!” Cooper yells from the point. His glance lingers just long enough to make my stomach twist. “Lock it down.”
Do I look off? Can they tell? No, if he had noticed, he would have thrown a fit until I was off the ice. It’s fine. Everything is fine. I just need to make it to the end of the game.
The puck drops and play resumes. The other team is coming in hot, but I’m ready.
The puck slides across the ice, and I drop into a butterfly again.
It takes everything I’ve got. My thighs tremble as I move.
My chest is molten with heat, my pulse drumming behind my eyes.
I blink, and the puck doubles just long enough to scare the shit out of me.
It slams into my pad and ricochets away.
It’s not clean, but they didn’t score. That’s the only thing that counts.
“Hey, dial it in, man!” Crosby barks, sharp and too close. “You look like you’re trying to meditate, not play goalie.”
I force myself up again, one motion at a time.
My body is fighting me now. Sweat soaks through my jersey, dripping down my spine, and makes the pads slick against my skin.
A cheer swells through the stands, loud and wild, but it’s muffled.
It’s like I’m at the bottom of the ocean; everything’s warped and distant.
The noise stretches and pulls like a warped record.
Focus. Focus, Beau.
I crouch, my body screaming in protest as a lightning-hot jolt shoots down my spine. My stomach flips so hard it feels like the ice is tilting beneath me. I blink hard as the puck doubles.
“Don’t fall,” I whisper, barely audible. “Don’t miss. Don’t make it worse.”
Another rush of bodies is coming in my direction. The other team’s forward breaks the blue line, cutting hard across the slot. He’s fast, and I shift to the right, but the signal hits late, and the puck slips through the five-hole and dings off the post into the back of the net. Goal. Tie game.
The red light flares behind me. The roar of the crowd swells, then crashes over me like a wave I can’t outskate. I don’t move. I can’t. My pulse is a war drum, pounding in my ears. I’m locked in place.
“Jesus, Hendrix.” Bowers skates past, his eyebrows pulled down in question. “You good, or you taking a nap down there?”
“That one’s on you, but you good?” Cooper drifts in, glancing down at me, panting.
“Fine.” The lie rasps its way out, but my lips barely move.
He doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the tic of his jaw and the crease between his brows. He stares for a breath too long, but only nods before skating off.
One more face-off. One more minute. I just need to hold it together. We win this, and no one has to know. We win this, and maybe no one remembers the soft one I let in.
The puck drops. My eyes lock on it, tracking every stutter, every spin. Then—chaos.
A perfect pass. A one-timer. The net ripples. We score.
The bench erupts, and sticks slam against the boards. The goal horn wails, and my ears ring. The crowd explodes, all stomping feet and roaring voices. I force myself to breathe. In. Out. Again. Relief hits hard, so hard it knocks the wind out of me more than the play ever could.
Please let that be what they remember. Not the shot I should’ve had. Not a second of hesitation. Not me.
The puck resets at center ice. Twenty seconds left. We’re up again, and I intend to keep it that way. I crouch low, every nerve stretched tight. The zone clears.
Ten. Five. Time bleeds out, thick and heavy, like syrup through a crack in the glass.
Three. Two. One. The horn blares.
Game over. We win.
I close my eyes for a second too long, soaking in the sound of victory and letting it muffle the guilt gnawing at my ribs. I paste on a grin and skate toward the chaos, hoping my relief doesn’t look too much like shame.
One of my teammates bumps his helmet against mine as I push out of the crease like I’m moving through concrete. My legs are like anchors. Every move toward the bench is a minor war I barely win. I just need to pretend a little longer. Sell the lie so hard that it sticks.
We disappear into the tunnel. The sound drops out as if someone cut the cord. It’s quieter now, but it’s not better. My thoughts are still screaming. I press my glove to the cinderblock wall as we pass through like it might hold me up.
Just one second. Hold on for just a little longer.
I look around for my teammates, but no one sees. Smile for the fist bumps. Nod when someone smacks the back of my helmet. Pretend my vision isn’t doubling and my hands aren’t trembling and my heartbeat isn’t off.
I make it to the locker room. Helmet off. Pads peeled away with trembling fingers. I stare down at my hands, at the sweat beading across my arms and the tremor I can’t make stop.
“Nice win, boys,” Mackenzie calls, tossing his gloves into his cubby. “Even if lover boy almost gave it away.”
“Yeah,” Declan chimes in with a shit-eating grin. “I swear, we better get him a leash, or he’s gonna drift right out of the crease next time.”
Laughter bubbles around the room, and I grin reflexively, like a mask slipping into place. Because if I don’t, they’ll know. And if they know, this might all come crashing down around me, so I keep smiling.
Even as my hands tremble in my lap. Even as the sweat dries cold on my back.
Even as everything in me screams I can’t keep doing this.
Not when my body’s betraying me inch by inch, and every shift in the net feels like a countdown to the moment I finally crack, and the ice—my safe place, my constant—feels like it’s turning on me.
I ball my fists, willing the shake to stop. Stop. Just stop.
Across the room, someone jokes about post-game beers. Someone else flicks a towel at Declan. Normal stuff, but I’m still sitting here like I forgot how to move, and no one notices.
No one sees that I’m not okay. That I’m breaking open again, but maybe that’s the point. Maybe I’ve gotten too good at pretending and selling the version of me they need—the calm, unshakable wall in the net. The reliable one. The strong one. The one who never misses.
Even when everything inside me is splintering and the truth feels like a weight pressing against my ribs, begging to be let out. But I can’t let it out because if I admit it—if I say the words out loud—it’s real. And if it’s real, I don’t know what happens next.
So I smile again and force it harder this time. Letting it stretch until it feels like it might split my face open. Then I grab my bag, stand on legs that barely hold me, and walk out of the locker room like I’m not falling apart.
Because I’m not. Not again. Not ever. Especially not tonight.