Page 3 of Hard Check

His smile faltered, guard dropping for a beat. "It's nothing. Summer—"

"Bullshit. You're favoring it. And if you're gonna lie to me before we even start this mentorship charade, we might as well tell Coach it won't work."

Pike glanced around the now nearly empty locker room and then exhaled slowly. His whole expression collapsed for a second—like someone yanked the plug on his public face.

"It's not the ankle." He whispered the answer. "It's the knee. Partial tear of the MCL in July. The team doctor says it's stable enough to play."

"Does Coach know?"

"He knows I'm cleared."

"That's not what I asked."

Pike stared at me. "He knows what the medical staff told him."

Which meant no—Pike had kept the full extent of it quiet. I'd seen it a hundred times: young guys hiding injuries because they were afraid of losing momentum, being labeled fragile, and missing their narrow window of opportunity.

"The doc—" Pike started.

"—wants his bonus for keeping players on the ice," I finished. "Trust me, kid. I've been around this block a few times."

I'd seen that same limp before—on Tyce Emerson, back in my second year. The kid kept it quiet for three weeks until his knee exploded in January.

Never made it back after surgery. Now, he works at his uncle's roofing business. No jersey. No ice.

One wrong turn, and you're… gone.

I looked down at the clipboard again, at the schedule Coach had created with such military precision. Early morning sessions. Extended drills. Video review. All the while, Pike was quietly nursing a knee that could give out at any wrong twist.

"Meet me at seven-thirty instead; we'll need time to adjust the program."

Pike frowned. "I don't need special—"

"It's not special, it's smart." I cut him off. "No one's getting a call-up with a blown-out knee."

A half-smile appeared on Mr. Sunshine's face. "Thanks, Carver."

I grunted, shouldering my equipment bag and turning toward the exit, clipboard heavy in my hand. "Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow's still gonna suck."

He laughed, and the sound followed me down the corridor. He's still hurt, and Coach stuck me with him anyway. Either this is punishment, or Coach was betting I'd give a damn.

Which was funny. Because now I did.

I pushed through the double doors into the parking lot, where the October air hit my face with a bracing slap of reality. The Colisée was a testament to Lewiston's complicated relationship with hockey—weathered and outdated but still the beating heart of local pride.

I fished my keys from my pocket and approached the only vehicle parked in the far corner of the lot—a 2008 Ford F-150 with more rust than paint and a passenger door that refused to open in temperatures below twenty degrees.

The truck had survived three Maine winters with me, its frame salt-eaten but engine still growling to life with stubborn reliability each morning. Like me, it was running on borrowed time, but too damn stubborn to admit it.

I tossed the clipboard onto the passenger seat, where it landed atop yesterday's half-eaten sandwich. The engine coughed twice before catching, the familiar rumble vibrating through the frame like arthritic bones setting into motion.

As I backed out, I saw Pike emerging from the arena doors, his designer duffel slung carefully over his left shoulder to avoid weighting his right side. He moved toward a leased Audi that practically sparkled even under the overcast sky.

"World of difference," I mumbled, shifting into drive and pulling away.

Chapter two

Pike

---