Page 10 of Hard Check

As the ref escorted me towards the penalty box, I glanced back to where Pike was pushing himself up to his knees, waving off the trainer who had started onto the ice. Our eyes met briefly. He nodded once—I'm okay—but the tight lines around his mouth told a different story.

Two minutes for roughing felt like twenty. I sat in the penalty box, a fish tank of shame, watching Providence's power play unfold with the detached analysis of someone who'd seen it all before. Their patterns were predictable—overload the strong side, look for the seam pass, collapse on rebounds. Mercier turned away two decent chances, and our penalty kill unit successfully cleared the zone three times.

When I finally escaped the box, the game was intense. Providence's forechecking pressure increased, forcing us into defensive zone turnovers. Coach relied more heavily on experienced lines.

Pike slid onto the bench beside me, breathing hard. His cheeks were flushed, sweat dampening the hair visible beneath his helmet.

"Sorry about the penalty," I muttered as we waited for the whistle.

He glanced at me, surprise on his face. "Why? Guy had it coming."

"Still put the team down a man."

"We killed it." There was something almost like a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Besides, now they're thinking twice about hitting me."

The shift passed without incident, both teams locking down defensively as the clock wound down. The final horn sounded with us ahead 2-1. A one-goal victory felt more satisfying than it should have.

I snagged Pike on our way to the locker room, pulling him aside in the tunnel. The joy of victory was painted across his face, but I noticed slight stiffness in his movement.

"Ice that shoulder." I kept my voice low. "Right away. Don't wait for interviews."

"It's fine. Just a stinger."

"Sure it is. And I'm running for Miss Maine. Ice. It. Now."

He raised an eyebrow. "You'd look great in a tiara."

"I'd be fucking majestic. Go."

The locker room was already a riot of celebration when we entered—music pumping from TJ's speaker at eardrum-rupturing levels, guys shouting over each other about key plays, and the sweet release of tension that came with the season's first victory.

"Icehouse?" TJ called across the room. He directed his question to everyone and no one in particular.

A chorus of "Yeahs" rose. The Icehouse was our local watering hole—divey enough to feel authentic but clean enough that management didn't worry about health code violations. After home wins, it transformed into an unofficial extension of the arena, packed with fans and players alike.

I hadn't planned on going. My couch and a heating pad had featured prominently in my post-game imagination, but then Pike looked over.

"You coming, Carver?"

"No" was suddenly the wrong answer. "What, miss the opportunity to watch TJ strike out with the bartender again? Wouldn't dream of it."

TJ clapped his hands together. "It's a Hockey Night miracle! Carver's joining the living!"

***

Ninety minutes later, I threw open the front door of The Icehouse. Warmth, noise, and the mingled scents of beer and deep fryer oil hit me immediately. Hockey memorabilia covered every available wall space, from faded jerseys in frames to signed pucks in plastic cases. The Forge featured prominently, of course, but there were nods to the Bruins, the old Nordiques, and even a dusty Whalers pennant tucked in one corner.

Dex, the bartender, called out my arrival. "Holy shit, it's the ghost of Carver past. Someone check whether hell's frozen over."

"Your concern for my social calendar is touching. How are the alimony payments, Dex? The fourth wife leave you with anything besides that vintage haircut?"

"Third wife, you jackass. And she didn't take the bar, so I count it as a win." He slid a glass of bourbon my way without being asked. "First one's on the house. For your heroic defense of the golden boy."

I raised an eyebrow. "News travels fast."

"Small town, big hit. Plus, it's already on some hockey highlights account." Dex wiped the counter. "You went full Papa Bear out there."

I corrected him. "Mentor Bear. It's a designated role."

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