Page 24 of Hard Check

Ipushedthroughthedoubledoors of the arena forty minutes before scheduled practice. My knee throbbed in dull protest—not pain exactly, more like a conversation my body insisted on having despite my attempts to ignore it.

I'd learned to translate the dialect: stiffness meant caution, sharp twinges demanded rest, but this steady pulse was manageable. It was a reminder rather than a warning.

I expected to be alone. Instead, I found Carver sliding across the ice in practiced figures, his breath clouding around him. He wasn't performing drills so much as working through movements that looked almost meditative.

I paused at the bench. The usual tension was lacking in his face.

He spotted me and pulled up, spraying ice against the boards. "Early bird gets the fresh ice, or were you hoping to avoid my charming company?"

"Came to work on transitions." I stood and glided toward him. "Didn't expect anyone else to be here."

"Transitions." He raised an eyebrow. "Sure, let's see them."

I launched into the series of crossovers and direction changes I'd been drilling for three days. It felt good—clean and controlled, my knee cooperating through each weight transfer.

Carver observed with arms crossed, his assessment more valuable than I cared to admit. "Your outside edge is still weak on the right side. You're compensating with your upper body."

"No, I'm not."

"Show me again."

I repeated the pattern, intensely aware of my form as I transitioned from inside to outside edge. He was right. I felt it—the subtle shift of my shoulders taking weight that my knee should have handled.

I muttered under my breath. "Damn it."

"It's not bad." He skated closer. "Still, in a game situation, that split-second adjustment gives away your next move."

I challenged him. "Show me your version."

He smirked but obliged, executing the transition sequence with economical grace. His movements weren't flashy, but he executed them with a brutal efficiency that I suddenly envied.

"You make it look effortless."

"Nothing about hockey is effortless when you hit thirty." He rotated his shoulder with a barely perceptible wince. "It's about making the pain worthwhile."

We fell into parallel drills, occasionally offering observations or adjustments. By the time the rest of the team arrived, we had progressed to passing drills—quick exchanges that required minimal communication. Coach nodded approvingly as he skated onto the ice, clipboard in hand.

"Good to see the mentorship paying off. We'll all head to the video room after practice. We're breaking down Providence's forecheck."

The full practice unfolded with its usual controlled chaos—line drills, system work, and conditioning that burned my lungs in the cold air. Throughout, I tracked Carver, aware of his movements even when focusing on my own tasks.

In the video room afterward, we all slouched in padded chairs as Coach dimmed the lights. Footage of our last game with Providence appeared on the screen.

"Their forecheck relies on overloading the strong side." Coach froze a frame. "Pike, you drew the defender here, but the timing was off."

I nodded, recalling the sequence—a broken play where I'd hesitated a fraction too long.

Carver's raised voice cut through the room. "Actually, the timing wasn't the problem."

Coach turned. "Enlighten us, Carver."

"Pike held the puck exactly long enough." Carver leaned forward, gesturing toward the screen. "Look at their defenseman's positioning. If Pike moves earlier, that lane never opens. He manipulated the coverage by being patient."

Coach studied the footage, and then he nodded slowly. "Good eye. Pike, that's the kind of puck protection we need more consistently."

The session continued, but I replayed Carver's comment in my mind. His validation shouldn't have mattered more than Coach's approval or the stats that showed I was one of our leading scorers. Yet, somehow, it did.

As we filed out of the darkened room toward the locker area, my shoulder brushed Carver's—casual contact that happened dozens of times in hockey. This time was different. The brief pressure lingered like a handprint, warm through the fabric of my shirt.

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