Page 21 of Hard Check

I shifted, uncomfortable with the potential direction of the conversation. "He was targeting one of our players."

"I handled it."

"By letting him knock you into next week?"

"By not letting him get to me." There was an edge in Pike's voice I didn't recognize. "I don't need someone swooping in to defend my honor, Carver. I've dealt with assholes like Sullivan my entire career."

"So I should've just let him run you?" Defensiveness rose hot and heavy in my chest. "That hit could've ended your season."

"That's not—" Pike took a measured breath. "I'm not ungrateful. Just saying I can handle myself."

"Never said you couldn't."

"Then why did you lose it like that? That wasn't a normal response to a teammate taking a hit."

Ilookedathimtoolong.I thoughtaboutthesoundofhisbodyhittingtheboards and thehollowsilencethatfollowed.

The damn kid was onto something. What could I say? That the sight of him vulnerable had triggered something primal in me? That for a split second, I'd have gladly broken Sullivan in half if it meant erasing the sound of Pike's body hitting the boards?

I reached for the TV remote, desperate for distraction. "You analyze everything this much, or am I special?"

He ignored the question. "What are we watching?"

"Absolutely not we. You're welcome to find another viewing location."

"It's my room, too." He settled against his headboard and crossed his arms over his chest. "Besides, I'm not leaving you alone to brood and reinjure yourself trying to open a beer with your teeth or something."

I snorted. "That was one time, and I was nineteen."

"Wait, you actually—"

"Focus, Pike." I flipped through channels, landing on a rerun of some mindless action movie—all explosions and impossibly attractive people outrunning them. "This work for you?"

"Sure."

We watched in silence for several minutes. I tried to focus on the plot—something about terrorists and a rogue agent—but my attention kept drifting to Pike. He sat cross-legged on his bed, occasionally shifting position, wincing slightly when he moved too quickly.

"Your back?"

He glanced over, surprised by the question. "Just a little stiff. Nothing serious."

"Ice would help."

"Probably." He made no move to get any.

I pulled myself off my bed, ignoring protesting ribs, and grabbed the ice bucket. "I'll be right back."

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up, Pike."

When I returned, we both applied washcloths wrapped around ice to our game injuries.

"Why'd you do it?" Pike asked quietly.

I knew what he was asking but decided to play dumb. "Get ice? Because you wouldn't."

"The fight." He turned, still holding the ice pack to his shoulder. "I've seen guys take worse hits without you jumping in."

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