Page 16 of Hard Check

When I returned home, my apartment greeted me with familiar shadows and silence. I dropped my equipment bag by the door, not bothering with my usual routine of unpacking and hanging gear to dry. Instead, I headed straight for the couch, propping my leg on a stack of pillows before replacing the mostly melted ice pack with a fresh one from my freezer.

I reached for the remote and flicked on the television, hoping for distraction. I stopped briefly at a hockey game—Bruins vs. Canadiens—but couldn't focus. Instead, I finally found a cooking competition show and silently entertained my cock-eyed dream of being a chef after hockey.

When the show ended, my thoughts circled back to Carver. What exactly had happened between us?

Professional concern was too simple of an explanation to accept. I'd seen trainers check injuries dozens of times—clinical, detached, efficient. What happened with Carver was different.

I whispered to myself. "It's only gratitude. Someone finally noticed."

That didn't entirely explain the gentle tone of his voice. It didn't account for how the shade of color in his eyes seared its way into my memory. I closed my eyes and tried to make sense of the confusion.

Before the encounter after practice, I'd understood my feelings about Carver in straightforward terms: respect for his experience, appreciation for his hockey intelligence, and occasional frustration with his abrasiveness. It was a simple, uncomplicated, professional relationship.

Now, it was different. It was like skating onto a patch of ice with invisible cracks beneath the surface. The ground I'd always trusted suddenly was dangerous and unpredictable.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table—a text from my mother, her nightly check-in disguised as casual conversation. I responded with reassurances about my health and well-being, carefully omitting any mention of knee pain or confusion about teammates.

Carver was right. The elevation and ice chased the pain away. I got up and shuffled to my kitchen, assembling a protein-heavy meal from pre-prepped containers in my refrigerator. While waiting for the microwave, I saw Carver's face in my mind: concerned, caring, and something else I hadn't put my finger on.

What did he see when he looked at me? A troubled rookie? A mentorship obligation? Something else entirely?

As midnight approached, I finally dragged myself to bed, arranging pillows to elevate my knee. On the edge of sleep, my mind conjured up one final image: Carver's brow furrowed in concentration while his fingers carefully moved across my injury.

It followed me into dreams with questions I couldn't answer and feelings I couldn't name.

Yet.

Chapter five

Carver

Thebusenginediedwith a wheeze as we pulled into the Holiday Inn Express parking lot. I'd spent the four-hour drive to Hartford with my headphones blasting Springsteen, pretending to sleep so no one would talk to me. My lower back ached from the bus seat's lackluster support—another reminder that recovery took longer these days.

Coach MacPherson stood at the front, voice cutting through the post-ride haze. "Twenty-six hours, gentlemen. One game, one purpose. Save the tourism for retirement."

I stretched, vertebrae popping in sequence. Three weeks into the mentorship program, I'd settled into a rhythm with Pike. On ice: professional, focused. Off ice: careful distance, minimal interaction. It was a system that worked.

Assistant Coach Landon appeared with a stack of key cards in paper sleeves. "Room assignments at the front."

I shouldered my bag and joined the shuffling line. When my turn came, he handed me a sleeve with "Room 312" scrawled on it. "You're rooming with Pike."

"What? I always room alone." It was one of the few perks I got as the longest-serving player on the team. The solo room came my way when Dane got kicked up to the show.

Landon replied in a business monotone. "Coach's orders. It's part of the mentorship integration."

"Integration? We're mentoring, not merging bank accounts."

Mercier brushed past, catching the tail end of the conversation. "Try not to murder the golden boy in his sleep. We need him functioning tomorrow."

"No promises." I pocketed the key card and headed for the hotel lobby.

Pike stood by the elevators, back straight as always. As I approached, he tracked my movement with careful attention.

I mashed the elevator call button. "Let me guess. You're a morning shower singer and sleep with seventeen pillows."

"Only sixteen." That sunshiny smile lit up his face. "Had to leave one at home."

My mouth twitched involuntarily. The kid could be funny when he wasn't trying to impress everyone.

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