Page 1 of Hard Check

Chapter one

Carver

AssistantCoachLandon'shandlanded on my shoulder as I finished lacing my boots. The locker room had mostly emptied, just a few stragglers gathering gear and trading worn-out jokes about last night's scrimmage.

"Mac wants you." He lowered his voice like he was delivering bad news. "Now."

I kept my eyes fixed on my laces, giving the left one a final, unnecessary tug. "What, did I forget to pay my tab at his daughter's wedding?"

TJ snorted from two stalls down, tossing a ball of tape that bounced off my helmet. "Must be about the net you crashed into yesterday. Those things cost money."

"Or the rookie you traumatized yesterday." Our goalie, Mercier, never looked up from taping his goalie stick with methodical precision.

"Maybe he finally wants my skincare routine," I grabbed my water bottle. "Lord knows his forehead's got more creases than the fucking rulebook."

As I stood, I caught my reflection in the dented metal locker door—hair still damp from practice, the familiar purple shadows beneath my eyes. I was starting my sixth season with the Forge, and the only thing that had changed was the deepening lines around my mouth.

"Twenty bucks says you're getting traded to Moose Jaw," TJ called after me, his laughter chasing me down the hall.

"Twenty bucks says you're getting traded to your mother's basement." I didn't turn and let my voice off the cinder block walls.

As I walked, the joke faded, and the knot tightened. Five completed years in the minors meant I knew how these unexpected summons usually played out—with packed bags and a firm handshake that never lingered.

I might be out before the new season officially started. We were still three days from opening night against Providence.

Coach MacPherson's office was smaller than most penalty boxes I'd occupied—a concrete cube wedged between equipment storage and the trainer's room. The door stood half-open, and I rapped my knuckles against the frame out of habit.

"Enter or exit, Carver. The hallway draft is killing my sinuses."

I stepped inside and froze. Matsson Pike sat in one of the two metal folding chairs, back impossibly straight, like someone had replaced his spine with a hockey stick. His blond hair was still damp from the shower and combed neatly behind his ears. He offered a quick smile and an awkward half-wave when he saw me.

Of course, it's something about Pike.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, painting everything in that particular shade of arena gray that made even healthy people look ill: everybody but Pike. Even under the harsh light, the kid glowed like he had his own personal filter—cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes clear and alert.

"You joining us or merely admiring Pike's haircut?" Coach's gravelly voice broke through my hesitation.

I dropped into the empty chair, the metal legs scraping against concrete. The space was so cramped that our knees nearly touched. Pike smelled faintly of that fancy soap he kept in his shower kit—something with cedar and orange. I caught myself leaning slightly closer before straightening in my chair.

The office reeked of Coach's black coffee and the menthol cream he rubbed on his bad knee. Six cork boards covered the walls, layered with lineup possibilities and statistical breakdowns that he updated obsessively.

"I'll keep this brief." He leaned forward. Three coffee cups crowded the edge of his desk, each containing varying levels of what had probably once been drinkable. "Management wants a more structured mentorship program this season. Veteran-rookie pairings."

I glanced sideways at Pike, who nodded with such earnest enthusiasm you'd think Coach had just outlined the blueprint for world peace instead of another corporate-mandated team bonding exercise.

"And you picked us because...?" I let the question hang, my thumb picking at a callus on my palm.

Coach fixed me with a stare that had withered tougher men. "Pike's coming off a breakthrough season. NHL scouts are circling. That means there are expectations."

Pike shifted in his seat.

"And me?" I asked, though part of me already knew the answer.

Coach leaned back, his chair groaning. "You're not getting faster, Holt. This may be your last shot to leave something behind besides penalty minutes and quotes in post-game interviews."

The truth landed hard. I'd felt it coming—my body had been telegraphing it for months with each new creak and twinge—but hearing it spoken aloud hollowed out my chest.

I always thought I'd know when it was ending. That I'd feel something big—some obvious sign. It turns out it's just your coach quietly reminding you that no one will remember your name.

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