Page 13 of Hard Check

As I drove home through Lewiston's quiet streets, Pike's question echoed.Is this participation?

I didn't have an answer. Not yet.

Chapter four

Pike

Theteamexitedtherink after practice, exhausted but satisfied, equipment bags slung over shoulders and voices bouncing off the concrete walls. TJ led the charge, proclaiming his domination of the final drill.

I hung back, taking longer than necessary to gather my equipment. The trainers hovered near the exit, clipboards in hand, as they performed cursory check-ins.

"Pike, need anything before you head out?"

"I'm good." The half-truth slipped from my tongue with ease. "Just going to work on some edge drills before I leave."

"Don't overdo it. We've got Providence again tomorrow."

"Twenty minutes, tops." That wasn't entirely true either. I'd decided to stay until my knee either improved or gave out completely.

The locker room door swung shut behind the last staff member, leaving me alone on the ice. With everyone gone, I finally allowed myself to acknowledge what I'd been hiding all practice: my knee had worsened overnight.

The pain lingered deeper than before—not the sharp, clean agony of a fresh injury, but something more ominous. It was a persistent throb that radiated outward every time I turned.

I gritted my teeth and pushed onto the ice anyway.

I carefully set up a row of pucks along the blue line, working through edge transitions. Each turn sent tremors through my leg. I ignored them.

Five more minutes and the pain would recede. It always did, eventually, once the muscles warmed fully.

Except this time, it didn't.

After the tenth repetition, I paused, resting my weight on my left leg while the right throbbed in protest. Sweat beaded along my hairline despite the chill radiating off the ice.

I whispered to no one, "It's fine. I just need to work through it."

I gathered more pucks, setting them up for quick-release wrist shots. The mechanics of the drill required weight transfer that sent shockwaves through my damaged knee, but I pushed onward.

Every puck that hit the back of the net validated my decision to stay. Every miss fueled my determination to continue.

"Your follow-through looks like you're swinging a baseball bat, not a hockey stick."

The voice materialized from nowhere, startling me so completely that I nearly toppled mid-shot. My puck sailed wide, clattering harmlessly into the corner boards.

Carver stood at the entrance to the bench area, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He'd changed out of his practice gear into worn jeans and a navy henley that had seen better days. His hair was still damp from the showers, pushed back haphazardly from his forehead.

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Fuck, make some noise next time."

"I did. You were too busy grimacing through whatever that was supposed to be." He gestured toward my stance. "You call that a shot?"

I straightened, instinctively shifting weight away from my right leg. "What are you doing back here? Thought you'd be halfway to the Icehouse by now."

"Forgot my phone." He patted his pocket as evidence, though something in his expression suggested that was his little white lie. "The better question is why you're still here torturing that knee."

"Just getting some extra work in."

"Extra work." He repeated the words and pushed off from the doorframe. "That what we're calling self-destruction these days?"

I collected another puck. "It's fine. I'm just—"

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