Page 30 of Hard Check

I had to be honest with the kid. "Coach confirmed it. This is my last year. After this, I'm done."

I didn't look at him; I couldn't bear to see pity or, worse, relief cross his features.

"You scared?"

The question was so direct that it crumbled all my remaining walls. I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat.

"Yeah, not of being done. Of being forgotten."

Pike angled his body toward mine. "You've still got so much to give. On the ice. Off the ice. This season. Whatever comes after."

I forced myself to look at him. Raw sincerity filled his eyes. No calculation there. No platitudes. Only sunshiny Pike, who somehow still believed the best about everything—even me.

"You're too damn earnest." The words lacked any sort of bite.

Pike's mouth curved into a half-smile. "Maybe, but I mean it."

He hitched his bag over his shoulder. "Some of us are grabbing food at Perk & Pine. If you want to join."

"I'll think about it." I knew I wouldn't go.

Pike nodded, understanding. He paused at the door, looking back. "See you tomorrow, Carv."

He'd created a nickname for me, and it hung in the air long after he disappeared down the hallway.

Silence settled over the locker room after Pike left. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows across empty stalls and abandoned equipment. The smell of sweat and rubber and athletic tape permeated everything. It was the most familiar scent of my entire adult life.

I remained seated, suddenly unable to summon the energy to move. I was in the sixth season in this exact spot. The worn wooden bench beneath me had absorbed fragments of every version of Holt Carver that had existed during those years.

And soon, none of them would matter.

I spotted the small table by Coach's office where the mentorship materials lived—binders, clipboards, and the other assorted detritus of his latest team-building experiment. Without quite deciding to, I crossed the room toward it.

Pike's clipboard sat on top of the stack, his name printed in Coach's blocky capitals across the label. I picked it up, weighing it in my hands before flipping it open.

The first pages contained the standard stuff—practice logs, skill assessments, and development goals. Coach's handwriting appeared occasionally with brief notations beside specific drills or performance metrics.

As I turned the pages, I found notes in a different hand—Pike's looser, more rounded script.

Footwork drill—C. demonstrated pivot that creates extra half-second. Huge difference on breakaways.

Work on protecting puck along boards. Watch Carver's shoulder position.

I continued reading. Each entry methodically documented something I'd shown him. The final page contained a single line, written only yesterday:

Mentor: Carver. Still learning from him every day.

Something hot and uncomfortable pressed behind my eyes. My vision blurred momentarily, the words swimming on the page. I blinked hard, the burn of unshed tears unfamiliar and unwelcome.

"Damn, kid," I muttered out loud.

I closed the clipboard and replaced it precisely where I'd found it, my fingers lingering on the worn plastic cover momentarily before pulling away.

Back at my stall, I gathered my things with mechanical efficiency. As I shouldered my bag, I stared at the row of framed team photos lining the corridor—years of Forge players, some faces recurring, and others appearing only once before disappearing into the oblivion of forgotten careers.

I'd be just another face in those photographs soon. Another name slipping from memory as new players claimed the ice. But maybe...

Pike's words echoed back to me.You've still got so much to give.

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