Page 28 of Hard Check

Coach didn't flinch. He looked at me and nodded in a way that answered louder than words could have.

My lungs seized. It was like someone had packed ice against my ribs from the inside.

I'd known—of course, I'd known. I was in my sixth season with the Forge. Thirty-one years old. My body took longer to recover after each game. Still, knowing and hearing occupied entirely different territories in my brain.

"The front office hasn't made final decisions yet." Coach exhaled. "But I thought you deserved to know which way the wind's blowing."

I nodded mechanically, fingers digging into my thighs under the desk.

"You're not being pushed out, but the league's getting younger, faster. The salary cap isn't changing. And your contract—"

"I get it." I cut him off, not trusting myself to hear the rest.

Coach leaned back, and the ancient chair protested beneath him. In the half-light of his office, the lines around his eyes deepened.

"Carver, you've been the spine of this team longer than most realize."

The unexpected warmth in his voice threatened to crack something inside me. I couldn't respond. Couldn't even nod. I only stood, my body moving before my brain caught up.

As I turned to leave, he spoke again. "Your mentorship with Pike. Critical mission now. More than ever."

I paused with my hand on the doorknob, not turning back. "Yeah."

When I pulled the door shut behind me, the click echoed down the empty corridor like a full stop at the end of the last sentence in a novel.

I didn't realize I'd left the arena until the cold slapped me awake. No jacket. No gear bag. Only me in a worn Forge hoodie and training pants, walking without direction through streets still bathed in the pre-dawn darkness.

My feet carried me toward the river—the Androscoggin. It was always present in Lewiston, like a pulse beneath the town's skin.

The footpath along the riverbank stretched empty before me—no joggers or dog walkers—only the occasional yellow lamp casting pools of light on frost-stiffened grass. Above, clouds hung low and heavy, threatening snow by afternoon.

The roar grew louder as I approached the falls. In spring, they thundered; in winter, they grumbled, parts of them frozen in mid-plunge. Today, they sounded like white noise, heavy static drowning out the thoughts battering against my skull.

I stopped at the guardrail overlooking the churning water below. The metal bit cold through my palms, but I barely registered it. Six seasons. Soon, I'd approach two thousand days spent in Lewiston—all wearing Forge black and silver.

What would happen when they took that away?

Memories of specific players slid through my mind like photographs scattered across a table. Marcus Deveraux, defenseman, invited me for beers when I first arrived. He was gone after his contract expired and disappeared back to Quebec.

Ray Alvarez had his shoulder give out in his fourth season. Last I heard, he was installing HVAC systems outside of Bangor. Cooper Jennings, our backup goalie for two seasons, now coached JV hockey at his old high school.

I was on the verge of joining them. No jersey. No cheers. Only a fade to grey.

My fingers tightened around the railing. The cold metal burned against my skin, but the pain was distant, separate from me.

A truck rumbled over the bridge, vibrating the boards beneath my feet. The world kept moving, indifferent to my private earthquake. That's what terrified me most—not the ending, but the ease with which everything would continue without me.

What happens when they stop needing me?

The falls offered no answers.

I stood there until my fingers numbed and the eastern sky lightened from black to slate. Then, I turned back toward the arena, toward the only certainty I had left—today, at least, they still expected me on the ice.

The locker room buzzed with pre-practice energy when I returned. I slipped through the chaos, heading straight for my stall.

"Well, well, well!" TJ's voice boomed across the room, three syllables stretched into nine. "Look what the hangover dragged in. Seriously though, bro—thought you might be taking a personal day. Old. Man."

The barb hung in the air, waiting for my return volley. Instead, I grunted and dropped onto the bench, reaching for my skates.

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