Page 20 of Hard Check

Coach's hand landed heavily on my shoulder when I rejoined the bench. "Smart? No. Necessary? Maybe." He squeezed once. "Just keep your head now."

We finished the game with a 3-2 win, grinding out a late goal despite Hartford's increasingly desperate attempts to tie it up. The locker room buzzed with victory energy afterward—music blasting, guys recounting key plays, and the sweet relief of earning two points on the road.

I sat quietly in my stall, gradually working through my post-game routine. My hand throbbed where the skin had split, and my ribs protested each deep breath—souvenirs from the Sullivan encounter.

Pike appeared at my side, voice low beneath the locker room chaos. "You should get that looked at." He nodded toward my hand.

"It's fine." I continued unwrapping my shin guards, ignoring the sting.

"It's not fine. You're bleeding on your gear."

Before I could protest further, Pike was gone, returning moments later with one of the trainers. With poor grace, I submitted to the examination, wincing as antiseptic hit the open wounds.

The trainer eyed the cut closely. "Might need a stitch or two. Come with me."

Twenty minutes and three stitches later, I returned to find the locker room half-empty. Pike sat in his stall, fully dressed, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when I entered.

"Everyone else headed to the bus. I told them I'd wait for you."

"Didn't need a babysitter."

"Never said you did." He shouldered his bag. "Ready?"

I nodded, suddenly too tired to stay irritated. We walked to the bus in companionable silence, the adrenaline of victory and violence gradually giving way to the bone-deep fatigue that followed every game.

The hotel room greeted us with stale air and rumpled beds that housekeeping had straightened but not fully remade. Pike placed his bag carefully by the closet while I dropped mine unceremoniously on the floor.

I dropped onto my bed, stretching carefully to avoid aggravating my ribs. The TV remote lay on the nightstand, but I made no move to reach for it. Instead, I stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles as Pike had the night before. Thirty-six visible from my angle. The thought triggered an unexpected wave of fondness.

My phone buzzed—a text from Mercier.

Mercier:Victory drinks in TJ's room. You coming?

I typed back a one-handed reply:

Carver:Pass. Body feels like it went through a wood chipper.

Mercier:Smart call. Tell Pike invitation extends to him too.

I turned toward Pike, who was fiddling with his phone. "Team's drinking in TJ's room. You're invited."

Pike considered for a moment and then shook his head. "Think I'll pass. Long day."

"Smart call."

He settled onto his bed, back against the headboard. "How's the hand?"

I flexed my fingers experimentally, wincing. "Functional."

"Worth it?"

The question caught me off-guard. "What?"

"The fight. Worth the pain?"

I studied him, trying to decipher the intent behind his question. "Sullivan had it coming."

"That's not what I asked."

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