Page 25 of Hard Check

"Nice read, Sunshine." His voice was low enough that only I could hear.

When we returned to the locker room, the team nutritionist had left behind the usual array of recovery options. I reached for a protein shake, then patted my pockets for the energy bar I could have sworn I'd tucked away earlier. Empty. My stomach protested with another audible rumble.

"Forget something?"

I turned to find Carver holding out a wrapped bar—one of the chocolate peanut butter ones that tasted less like cardboard than the others.

"How did you—"

"You burn too hot to skip fuel." He tossed it to me. "Watched you give yours to that new kid when he looked pathetic after sprints."

I hadn't realized anyone had noticed that small exchange with Monroe. He was our newest defenseman, drafted straight from college with a frame still too lean for professional hockey.

"Thanks. I would've grabbed another."

Carver shrugged, already turning away. "Can't have my winger passing out mid-drill. Makes me look bad."

The comment was classic Carver—any kindness immediately undercut with practicality or self-interest—yet something in his tone lacked the usual edge. I watched him walk away, noting how carefully he distributed weight with each step.

That evening, most of the team gathered at The Icehouse. Strings of mismatched Christmas lights gave the room a warm glow year-round, illuminating decades of hockey memorabilia that adorned the walls.

We occupied our usual long table in the back corner, a space unofficially reserved for the Forge. A classic rock playlist competed with two dozen conversations, creating a comfortably chaotic noise.

I sat between Carver and TJ at the center of the table—the top line holding court. TJ was in rare form, animated beyond his usual exuberance.

"So, Pike..." TJ's voice carried throughout the bar, drawing everyone's attention with the tone that signaled incoming mischief. "When's the wedding? I see those dreamy looks you keep tossing at Carver like he's a damn romance novel cover."

My stomach dropped as heat flooded my face. The table erupted in laughter, including Carver beside me. Despite feeling suddenly exposed, I forced myself to laugh along as if TJ had somehow read thoughts I'd barely acknowledged to myself.

"You mean the smolder?" Mercier joined in, leaning forward with exaggerated seriousness. "That slow-burn intensity. Gets me every time."

More laughter. I needed to respond before the silence stretched too long and transformed simple teasing into something uncomfortable. I marshaled my features into an expression of amused indifference.

"Guess I have a type." I carefully calculated my response. "Angry and old."

The table exploded with renewed laughter and a chorus of "Ohhhhh!" Someone slapped the table. Monroe nearly choked on his drink. Even Carver shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been genuine amusement.

"Watch it, Sunshine," he growled. "Old enough to remember all your rookie mistakes."

The conversation mercifully shifted to other targets, but something fundamental had altered. I fixed my gaze on my plate, suddenly aware that I couldn't risk meeting Carver's eyes again—not when TJ's teasing hit so unexpectedly close to a truth I'd been circling.

Only when the evening drew to a close, and my teammates began shifting toward the exit, did I finally permit myself a sidelong glance at Carver. He was listening to something Mercier was saying, profile illuminated by the amber glow of the Christmas lights.

Something caught in my throat. It wasn't mere admiration or respect. Something else made my pulse quicken when our eyes finally met across the table as the evening wound down.

The drive home was too quiet after the noisy camaraderie at The Icehouse. The radio played softly—some late-night DJ's attempt at mellow vibes—but I couldn't focus on the music.

Instead, I replayed moments from the evening in my mind: Carver's rare laugh, the intensity in his eyes when our gazes briefly connected, and the casual brush of his hand against mine when he reached for his drink. They were details I shouldn't have noticed but somehow couldn't forget.

By the time I pulled into my apartment complex's parking lot, my knuckles were white on the steering wheel. I sat there for a moment after killing the engine, watching my breath cloud in the rapidly cooling air.

Get it together.I pushed open the car door and stepped into the night.

In my apartment, I dropped my keys on the counter, where they skidded across the surface before coming to rest against yesterday's coffee mug. The clock on the microwave displayed 11:37—not particularly late by usual standards, but enough to make my body protest after the day's exertion.

I should have gone straight to bed. Instead, I collapsed onto my couch, one arm flung over my eyes as TJ's words echoed in my head.Those dreamy looks you keep tossing at Carver.Had I been that transparent? Or was that TJ's default setting—finding opportunities for teasing without actual observation behind it?

My laptop sat on the coffee table, still open from the searches I'd done while wolfing down breakfast. I reached for it without fully deciding why.

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