Page 2 of Hard Check

I forced a smirk. "So, what do you want from me, mentoring sunshine over here? You sure he can handle all this charm?"

"I think I can learn a lot from you." Pike spoke up with a steady and sincere voice. There was no sarcasm, no irony—only genuine respect, which somehow made it worse.

To him, I was likely some wise elder statesman instead of a thirty-year-old forward with joints that sounded like popping bubble wrap with every morning stretch.

"Your physical game creates so much space." He leaned forward. "And the way you read defensive positioning—"

"Save the highlight reel," I cut him off, uncomfortable with the naked admiration. "We haven't even started yet."

Coach pulled a clipboard from the mountain of paperwork and handed it to me. The edges were worn smooth from thousands of previous handoffs.

"Schedule's here. Check-ins after practice, one-on-one sessions twice weekly. I want mentorship logs." His eyes narrowed. "Real ones, Carver, not the shit you usually scribble on medical forms."

I flipped through the pages—detailed practice plans, evaluation metrics, and reflection questions. "Jesus, Coach. Did you stay up all night with a scrapbooking club?"

He ignored my jab. "This isn't only about Pike improving. Leadership isn't measured by how loud you yell on the ice."

That stung more than I wanted to admit. I'd always been vocal—the first to call out lazy plays and the one who could energize the bench with the right cutting remark. Still, I'd never be captain material. Dane was gone, and we needed a new one, but I knew it wouldn't be me.

"Pike needs someone who won't blow sunshine up his ass." Coach folded his fingers together. "And you need a legacy that matters." He looked between us. "Make it work."

The dismissal was clear. I rose first, Pike half a second behind me, our chairs scraping in unintentional unison.

Coach called to us as we reached the door. "Tomorrow morning, eight sharp, before team skate."

I grumbled. "Didn't know we opened that early."

"You know it's 24-hour access. Use your key."

After Coach's claustrophobic office, the locker room felt vast. I tucked the clipboard under my arm and headed across the room, hoping to escape whatever earnest conversation Pike was undoubtedly formulating.

It didn't work. His legs were younger, unburdened by five seasons of minors-level travel and back-to-back games on concrete-hard ice. He matched my stride effortlessly.

"I am looking forward to this," he began. "Been studying your tapes since juniors."

I grunted, scanning the clipboard. Eight mandatory sessions per week. Individual skill development. Leadership modules.

Coach had even included a section labeled "Emotional Intelligence Benchmarks." It would make a good coaster for my next beer.

Pike continued to ramble. "—how you create space in the corners. It's not only physical. It's psychological—like you convince guys you're more dangerous than you actually are."

I looked up sharply. "Gee, thanks."

"That came out wrong." Pike winced. "I meant—"

"Save it for tomorrow," I cut him off, unwilling to watch him backpedal.

As I approached a bench, Pike stepped ahead of me. That's when I caught it—a slight wince as his right foot took weight. It was a barely perceptible hitch in his step that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

I focused my attention on it like a laser. Rumors had circulated all summer—some accident in July, something about a fall on wet pavement—but the official line had been "minor issue, fully resolved." Watching him now, I knew that was pure, grade-A horseshit.

Pike glanced back, catching me watching him. Something vulnerable flickered across his face before disappearing behind that camera-ready smile.

"Eight AM. Anything specific you want me to prepare?"

I stared at him, mentally calculating how much weight he kept off that right leg. How much pressure it would take before that carefully maintained composure cracked. How many games he might last before the injury resurfaced.

"Yeah." I folded my arms over my chest. "The truth about that ankle."

---