Page 26 of Hard Check

Our team's internal video system was accessible from home, with a library of game footage available for players who were obsessive enough to study during off-hours. I typed in my credentials and navigated to our most recent games.

"This is stupid," I muttered, even as I clicked through to find specific sequences.

I found our power play against Springfield last week. After scrolling to the timestamp I remembered, I hit play. The footage showed our set formation with Carver positioned near the right boards as the puck cycled through our rotation. A Springfield defender lunged toward him, trying to break up our play.

What happened next was pure hockey instinct. Carver absorbed the contact, using his entire body to shield the puck while maintaining possession.

He didn't appear flashy or elegant; he was immovable, a force that refused to yield despite the pressure. Then, without looking, he slid a perfect backhand pass directly to my stick, where I waited in the slot.

I paused the video on the frame where the puck connected with my blade. My expression on the screen was focused, and I was already calculating the shot.

Next, I rewound the tape to watch Carver's movement again—the strength in his stance and precision in his pass.

I played it twice more, studying the sequence with an intensity that went beyond professional analysis. When I caught myself about to replay it a fourth time, I shut the laptop abruptly and pushed it away.

"What are you doing?" The room didn't respond. I only heard the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing on the street below.

I no longer looked at Carver how teammates were supposed to look at each other. Somehow, he'd begun to occupy more space in my thoughts than made sense.

I pushed myself off the couch, shedding clothes as I headed toward the bedroom. A hot shower did nothing to quiet my mind, which continued to cycle through moments in the day. Sleep claimed me eventually, but my subconscious refused to grant peace.

My dream began on familiar ice, but it was a transformed arena. The ceiling had vanished, exposing a night sky where pucks rather than stars traced silver trajectories. I was alone with Carver, working through the transition drill from that morning, but the boards had disappeared—the ice extended endlessly in all directions.

As I positioned myself to repeat the drill, Carver stepped behind me, his hands firm on my waist. "Weight on the outside edge," he instructed, his voice low near my ear. "You're still favoring the knee."

The arena scoreboard flickered to life overhead, displaying numbers that kept changing—my stats, age, and time remaining in the season. I tried to focus on the drill instead.

I adjusted my stance as directed, fully aware of his proximity. His hands remained steady, guiding my movement as we glided together in perfect synch.

"Better," he murmured, and the approval sent a shiver through me.

Withoutmakingaconsciousdecision,Iturned.CarverwascloserthanIexpected—tooclose.Closeenoughthathisbreathgrazedmycheek,hotagainstthechillofthe rink. Behind him, the penalty box had transformed into something that resembled a bed, red-lit like a sin bin but unmistakably intimate.

I froze. Not from fear exactly, but from confusion, maybe awe. Something unspoken passed between us, as real as any puck drop and just as irreversible.

Hishandsstillrestedonmywaist,andwhenIdidn'tstepback,hedidn'teither.Myheartpounded.Itoldmyselftomove—tosaysomething,tomakeajoke—butIjust stoodthere.

AndthenIdidwhat I never imagined:Ileanedin.Hesitantly.Barely moving. Barely enough for my lips to brush his.

It was awkward. Clumsy. There was too much pressure at first, and I pulled back immediately, mortified—only to find his eyes still on me. Steady. Unshaken. Maybe even a little… amused? The scoreboard above us suddenly displayed 37 + 12, our jersey numbers, with a flashing red heart between them.

Then he kissed me—not tentative this time, but firm. Commanding, so unlike Amanda's softness or Kelsey's smooth cheek—this was unexplored terrain, all friction and heat.

And holy hell, it felt—wrong in all the right ways, like something I shouldn't want but couldn't resist.

Igaspedintohismouth,shockedbytheweightofhisbodyashepulledmecloser. My hands fumbled—one gripped the fabric of his hoodie like a lifeline, the other hovered awkwardly near his chest, unsure where to land.

Thestubbleonhisjawwas rough againstmyskin.Ifeltoverwhelmed.Off-balance.Andsodamnalive.

Whenhishandslidbeneathmyjerseyandsettledagainstthebareskinofmyback,Ijoltedawake with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Myentirebodyflushed, face burning, chest tight, and cock hard in the tangle of sheets.

I lay there staring into the dark, every breath sharp and fast, like I'd just sprinted the length of the rink.

I'dneverkissedaman and neverwantedto.Notconsciously.Notuntilnow.

Igroanedintomypillowandwhispered,"Whattheactualfuck."

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