Page 11 of Hard Check

Across the room, my teammates had claimed their usual territory—a collection of scarred wooden tables pushed together near the back. Pike sat with TJ and Mercier, beer in hand, apparently deep in some animated discussion.

"Carver!" TJ's voice cut across the bar noise. "Stop being antisocial and bring your old bones over here!"

Several patrons turned to look. Subtle as a freight train, that one.

"I'm good right here. I'm watching you make a fool of yourself from a safe distance."

Pike added his voice. "At least join us for a toast!"

With an exaggerated sigh, I pushed off the bar stool, bourbon in hand, and crossed to their table.

"To Pike's first goal of the season," TJ declared, raising his beer. "May there be many more, preferably assisted by yours truly."

"To Pike," the group echoed, glasses clinking.

Pike had to add his bit. "And to Carver, for the advice that made it happen."

Attention shifted to me. "Jesus, don't make it weird. I only pointed out the obvious. You did the work."

Conversation began to flow around me. I contributed the occasional barb or observation, but I mostly watched the dynamics unfold. The rookies clustered together, still finding their place. Veterans held court in their established territories. Pike moved easily between groups. Mr. Sunshine was comfortable everywhere.

Pike planted himself on a stool beside me. "The boys are talking about karaoke. Mercier does a surprisingly good Bon Jovi when properly motivated."

"I'm not doing karaoke or wearing funny hats. Or clapping on beat. Or participating in any team-building activity that involves public humiliation."

"You're not even old, but you're already a grump."

"Grump beats golden retriever energy every time." It was a barbed comment, but my voice had little edge.

Pike shifted on his stool, and I saw a brief wince.

"How's the shoulder?"

"It's fine."

"Bullshit."

Pike adjusted his answer. "It's hockey-fine. Nothing broken or torn. Only the latest addition to the collection." He rolled the shoulder as if to demonstrate, but the movement was tentative, carefully controlled.

"Ice it tonight. Anti-inflammatories. Sleep on your other side."

"Yes, Coach."

I ignored the poke. "And for fuck's sake, don't tell me you're fine when you're not. Do you think I can't spot a player hiding pain? I've been doing it professionally for a decade."

He lowered his voice. "I didn't want to seem weak. Not after—"

"After your knee? Kid, there's a difference between playing through pain and being stupid. One of my jobs is figuring out which one you're doing at any given moment."

TJ approached. His shambling walk suggested he was a beer or two ahead of Pike. "Karaoke time! Both of you, no excuses. Pike, you promised to do 'Sweet Caroline' after your next goal."

"I absolutely did not."

"Memory's fuzzy, but I'm certain you did." TJ turned to me. "Carver, what's your go-to song? Wait, let me guess—something dark and brooding. Johnny Cash? Nine Inch Nails?"

"My go-to is leaving before you put my name on a list."

TJ clutched his chest dramatically. "You wound me. I'm only trying to build team morale."

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