Page 18 of Hard Check

I was already turning away, pulling covers up to my shoulder. "Only silence and darkness, Sunshine. Some of us need our beauty sleep."

Morning arrived too soon. I woke to the gentle vibration of my phone alarm, catching it before the sound could fully engage. Pike was still asleep, curled slightly toward me, one arm tucked beneath his pillow.

I slipped out of bed and into the bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection. Dark circles shadowed my eyes—evidence of too much awareness of Pike to get a good night's sleep.

By the time I emerged, he was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed.

My voice was still slightly rough from sleep. "Breakfast downstairs in twenty. Team meeting at nine."

"Got it." He smiled faintly. "Sleep okay?"

"Like the dead," I lied. "You?"

"Not bad. Counted those tiles three times, though."

I dressed quickly and headed downstairs alone, leaving Pike to his morning routine. The hotel restaurant buzzed with other players and a handful of business travelers. I filled a plate with eggs and bacon, doctored the watery coffee with enough cream to make it palatable, and joined Mercier at a corner table.

"How's cohabitation with the golden boy?"

"Exciting as watching paint dry." I shoved a forkful of eggs into my mouth. "Kid folds his underwear."

"The horror." Mercier's eyes crinkled at the corners. "And yet, you survived."

"Barely."

The team meeting passed in a blur of strategy talk and video clips. Coach drilled us on Hartford's penalty-kill tendencies and their top line's habits. Pike sat near the front, focused entirely on the presentation, occasionally making notes in his small notebook.

After lunch, we returned to the hotel. It gave us a few hours of free time before a bus ride back to the arena. Pike sat cross-legged on his bed, methodically taping a stick. His fingers moved efficiently, wrapping the black tape in perfect, overlapping spirals. What caught me off-guard was the quiet humming that accompanied his work.

"You always hum like that?"

He looked up, startled. "Was I? Sorry."

"Didn't say stop. Only asked if it's a regular thing."

"Oh. Mom says I've done it since I was a kid. Usually don't notice I'm doing it."

"What's the song?"

"Nothing specific. I guess whatever's in my head." He resumed his taping, and the humming was quieter, more self-conscious.

I pulled my worn copy ofThe Old Man and the Seafrom my bag—a superstition I'd never admitted to anyone. Before every away game, I read the same five pages. It wasn't for luck, exactly, but for perspective. For the reminder that persistence mattered more than perfection.

"Hemingway?" Pike's voice interrupted my ritual.

I glanced up, already feeling defensive. "What about it?"

"Nothing. Just wouldn't have pegged you for a classics guy."

"As opposed to what?"

"I don't know. True crime? Motorcycle magazines?" His sunshiny smile defused any ill feelings on my part. "What else do you read?"

It was a casual question, but it felt significant—like Pike was genuinely interested in the answer.

"Depends." I closed the book, my thumb holding the place. "Fantasy sometimes. History. Whatever doesn't feel like work."

"Any recommendations? I finished my last book on the bus ride."

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