Chapter 30 – Beau
Chapter Thirty
Beau
It’s been three days since the game. Three days of pretending I’m just under the weather.
Three days of hiding behind unread texts and one-word replies. Three days of lying to myself that it’s just a fluke and nothing too serious. Fuck, for once in my life, I wish I were a better liar.
I missed game films on Friday and practice today. There’s a game this weekend, and I’m not sure I’m going to make it. I haven’t told anyone yet because saying it out loud makes it real. Real is the monster in the dark corner of the room I refuse to look at.
I shift on the couch, muscles twitching like exposed wires.
Pain slices down my back and coils around my ribs.
My spine feels like it’s fused into one long cramp.
My knees ache. My fingers are stiff and so uncoordinated that I dropped a glass this morning just trying to pour water.
I didn’t even flinch when it shattered, just stared at the broken pieces on the floor because picking them up would’ve hurt more.
I left them right there on the kitchen floor before returning to my spot, curling up on the couch where I’ve been for hours.
The pain in my head has become its own pulse, ringing in my ears louder than my heartbeat.
A living, snarling thing burrowed behind my eyes.
Even with the blinds mostly drawn, the sliver of light leaking through needles at my skin, piercing my skull.
I curl tighter into myself, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like punishment.
Everything is too much. Too rough. Too hot. Too loud. Even the silence hurts.
My shirt is stuck to my back with sweat as the nausea constantly churns like low-level waves that rise higher every time I move.
And then there’s the rash I noticed early this morning in the bathroom mirror.
The reflection hit me like a punch, my skin red and angry.
It’s the unmistakable outline of a butterfly, stretching across the bridge of my nose and bleeding onto both cheeks.
A mark I know from pamphlets and late-night Google searches I swore I’d forget.
It’s not subtle; it’s screaming to anyone who sees me that something is wrong.
I should call someone. Parker, the team doc, or even Cooper, but I can’t seem to pick up my phone. My hands won’t stop shaking long enough. So, I lie here in my swollen, aching body that feels like it belongs to someone else.
The worst part? I was fine. Just a few days ago, I was skating circles around the guys at practice, chirping at my teammates, and soaking up every small inch Alise let me in.
Everything was perfect. I felt strong, practically invincible, and I was happy.
I finally felt like things were falling into place, and now I’m falling apart.
It makes little sense. There was no warning sign that I’d wake up the next day and not recognize my body.
It’s gotten so bad that I had to call my doctor this morning, and the words had barely left my mouth before she said, “It’s a flare-up.
” I asked her how long it would last, already bracing for the answer.
She said there is no telling how long it will last. Flares are unpredictable.
Some last a day and others drag on for a week, but most of the time, they settle after a few days.
What does that word even mean? I need answers, a timeline of when I can get back to my life, but the word is a fucking landmine to the life I was slowly piecing back together. It lives in my chest now, pulsing with every breath I take like a soft promise with a thousand sharp edges.
If things continue like this, there will be no way for me to be between the pipes at game time, and the thought rips something inside me wide open. Because if I’m not out there, what am I? If I can’t play, who am I? If I’m still sick, how can I give Alise what she needs?
Three firm raps against the door jolt me out of my spiral, and I freeze.
My heart stutters, and a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead as I wait to see who is at the door.
No matter who it is, I can’t let them in.
My mind races, trying to think of who might just stop by to see how I’m doing, but I come up empty.
The pounding behind my eyes makes it impossible to remember anything but the pain.
Another soft but persistent knock rings through my place, followed by a voice I haven’t heard in weeks but would recognize in my sleep.
“Beau?” My stomach knots, and I don’t know where to thank the powers that be or curse them for my luck. It’s not Alise, thank fuck, but it is Momma.
I push the blanket off and drag myself upright with a groan that feels like it comes from the marrow of my bones. I yank the hood over my head and stumble toward the bathroom.
“Just a second!” I call, forcing air into my lungs.
With each step, it feels like I’m walking through a battlefield.
I’m dizzy, nauseated, and my legs are weak beneath me, but I make it to the sink and flick the light on.
White-hot pain lances through my skull, causing me to hiss and grab the counter, eyes slamming shut.
When I pry them open again, the rash is still there, the skin flushed and raw.
I splash water on my face, hard, like it’ll scrub the sick off and make me human again.
But it doesn’t. Instead, I pat my cheeks dry, head into my room to throw on a clean hoodie, and shuffle to the door.
My fingers shake as I undo the chain and force a practiced smile on my face, my mask sliding firmly back into place.
I crack the door open just wide enough to see her. Her hair’s pulled back, her eyes sharp behind her glasses, but soft in a way she saves just for me.
“Hey, sweetheart.” She doesn’t even wait for me to invite her and slides past me. “Let me in.”
“Hi to you, too,” I say with a smirk that feels like broken glass.
She steps inside and zeroes in on me like a heat-seeking missile. Her gaze flicks over my slumped shoulders, the hollows under my eyes, the stiffness in my walk. “You’ve been ignoring me and your brothers. I figured I’d come see that you were still alive and kicking for myself.”
“I’m fine,” I respond instinctively. “You all worry too much.”
“You look like hell.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
She cups my cheek with a hand that’s too warm, and I try to duck, but not fast enough. Her fingers pause, brows furrowing deeper. “Beau, you’re burning up.”
“I was just resting. I didn’t sleep well. Migraine.”
She doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t say anything either.
“Go lie down on the couch.”
“But—”
“That wasn’t a request,” she responds curtly, and I don’t argue.
I shuffle toward the couch and lie back down, barely resisting the urge to curl into the fetal position.
My eyes follow her as she moves around my condo like she owns the place, setting her bag on the kitchen counter and pulling out things that make my throat tighten—soup, ginger ale, electrolyte packets, and a thermometer.
She walks over with the thermometer and sits beside me on the couch. “Open.”
“Mom—”
“I brought the good soup.”
I huff a quiet laugh, my ribs screaming in protest as I open my mouth. After a few minutes, the thermometer beeps, and she checks it.
“What’s your plan, Beau?” she asks, not unkind, but not letting me off the hook. “Just suffer through it and hope no one notices?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears. “And if I say it out loud…”
The rest sticks in my throat like splinters.
My lungs seize. The air feels too sharp, too thick, like trying to breathe through cotton soaked in ice water.
My vision blurs at the edges, black creeping in like the threat of something I can’t undo.
My body knows panic before my brain can name it because once I say it—once the words leave my mouth—it becomes real.
I’ll have to look it in the eye. Name it. Admit that something inside me has changed, maybe for good. Tell the world that this isn’t just exhaustion or stress or an awful week. My chest constricts, tight with the pressure of everything I’ve been holding back.
Momma reaches for my hand slowly, like she’s approaching a wounded animal. Her fingers are warm, steady as they slip between mine. She doesn’t even flinch when she feels the tremor in my palm.
“Then we find out together.”
My eyes burn, vision swimming again, but for a different reason this time.
I close them and try to breathe around the shame clawing at my insides for not being stronger.
For not being able to protect her from this broken version of me, but she doesn’t pull away or ask more from me than I can give.
And in that stillness, something cracks open.
Not all the way, but enough to let in her warmth and allow the first threads of relief to wrap around the terror tightening in my chest. And for the first time in three days, I don’t feel like I’m breaking alone.
I don’t know how long we sit there with Momma’s hand wrapped around mine, her thumb brushing slow, steady circles across my knuckles like it’s the only way to keep me from disappearing.
My jaw hurts from clenching against the truth, but I know this isn’t going away.
None of this is, so I breathe in, letting it rattle out of me before I say the words I have yet to tell another soul. “I have lupus.”
Her thumb stops moving, but she doesn’t gasp or ask what that means. She just gives me a soft, tear-filled smile like she already knew what I was going to say, but that’s not possible.
“You’re not surprised.”
“No.” She lowers her gaze, and when she speaks, her voice is calm.
“You knew?” My voice cracks like dry ice. “You knew and said nothing?”
“I suspected it, but not about you specifically. About your father.”