Page 19 of Hard Check

I considered for a moment. "You readThe Art of Fielding?"

"The baseball novel? No, but I've heard of it."

"It's not really about baseball. It's about... I don't know, pressure. Expectations. What happens when your body betrays what your mind knows you can do." I stopped, suddenly wary of revealing too much through my reading choices.

"That's what I need right now." Pike's phone chimed, and he glanced down at the screen. Whatever he saw there transformed his expression—tension melting away, replaced by a spontaneous, unguarded laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"My sister." He turned the phone, showing me a photo of a toddler covered head-to-toe in what appeared to be spaghetti sauce. "My nephew's first attempt at self-feeding. She says now she understands why our mom always made us eat in the backyard."

At that moment, the sunlight from the window caught in his hair, turning it from blond to gold. At that moment, with his guard completely dropped, he was breathtaking—and the thought hit me with such force that I physically recoiled from it.

"You okay?"

I stood abruptly. "Fine. Leg cramp."

I headed for the bathroom and leaned against the door, breathing deeply. What the hell was happening to me? This was Pike—the kid I was mentoring, a teammate, nothing more.

At the arena, the familiar pre-game chaos enveloped us—equipment managers arranging gear, trainers taping ankles and wrists, and coaches huddled over last-minute adjustments. I settled into my corner stall, methodically gearing up. Left skate first, right skate second. Shin guards secured with extra tape—a habit from juniors when cheaper equipment always threatened to shift. My shoulder pads adjusted until they sat perfectly across my back.

When the buzzer sounded, calling us to the ice for warm-ups. I waited for Pike near the tunnel.

"Ready?"

"Always."

The first period unfolded as predicted. Hartford came out throwing their weight around, finishing checks with extra emphasis, crowding our crease. We weathered the initial surge and answered with speed, transitioning quickly through the neutral zone.

Eight minutes in, Pike slipped a perfect pass between two defenders, finding TJ streaking toward the goal. The red light flashed, and we converged in celebration.

"Fucking beautiful!" I shouted above the noise, giving Pike's helmet a congratulatory smack.

He grinned, cheeks flushed with exertion and pride. "Saw you tying up that defenseman. Gave TJ all the space he needed."

As the game progressed, an increasingly desperate Hartford team started to play dirty. The refs turned their heads and swallowed their whistles, ignoring illegal checks.

Near the end of the second period, a sequence unfolded in slow motion. Pike collected a clearing attempt at our blue line, head up, reading the developing play. Sullivan, Hartford's designated enforcer, approached from his blind side, lifting slightly as he drove his shoulder.

The hit connected with Pike's upper back and sent him sprawling. His body crumpled against the boards, stick flying from his hands. The sound—that sickening crack of body meeting immovable surface—echoed through the arena.

Something in me snapped.

I was across the ice in seconds, gloves already gone. Sullivan turned just as I reached him, a smirk dying on his lips as my first punch connected with his jaw. My world narrowed to a single focus—make him pay, make him hurt, make him understand the consequences.

"You don't fucking touch him!"

Sullivan recovered enough to land a solid hit to my ribs, but adrenaline dampened the pain. I drove forward, taking us both down to the ice, landing on top with enough leverage to connect again.

Officials converged, whistles blaring. Hands grabbed at my shoulders, trying to separate us. I shook them off, landing one final shot before being forcibly dragged away.

"Five minutes for fighting, number 37!"

The penalty box door clanged shut behind me. My knuckles throbbed, blood smearing the tape where Sullivan's teeth had cut through. I gulped air, the rational part of my brain slowly reasserting control.

Across the ice, Pike was back on his feet, waving off the trainer. Our eyes met briefly—his wide with surprise. I couldn't read his expression from this distance, couldn't tell if he was angry at my intervention or grateful for it.

As I sat in the penalty box, a realization settled over me. My action wasn't about protecting a teammate. It was about Pike specifically. Something about him had burrowed under my skin, creating a connection I hadn't asked for and didn't know how to process.

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