Page 31 of Hard Check

If this was the end—and it was—maybe it didn't have to mean disappearing. Maybe what I left behind could be more than statistics and fading recollections of broken Forge penalty minutes records.

Maybe it could be Pike, carrying something of me forward toward a career peak I could never reach.

I hit the lights as I left, plunging the locker room into darkness. Tomorrow, I'd find my voice again. Tomorrow, I'd be the mentor the kid deserved for whatever time I had left.

After all, someone had to ensure that golden boy didn't burn himself out before getting his shot at something bigger than Lewiston.

Chapter eight

Pike

Thealuminumbenchbeneathme had long since leached the warmth from my thighs, but I didn't have the energy to move. Around me, the visitor's locker room in Springfield breathed defeat—a low hum of muffled sighs, equipment packed with too much force, and the occasional curse whispered into towels.

Forty-seven minutes since the final buzzer. Two goals to our one. It was not a blowout or a major disaster, but somehow worse for how winnable it had been.

I unlaced my skates methodically. My mind replayed the third-period power play where I'd fumbled the pass from TJ. It should have been routine, something I'd converted in practice a thousand times before. Instead, the puck skittered off my blade like a living thing trying to escape.

"You still with us, Pike?" Mercier's voice cut through my spiral.

I glanced up, realizing I'd been staring at my half-untied skate for an uncomfortably long time. "Yeah. Just... processing."

"Process faster. Bus leaves in fifteen."

The outcome of the game had disrupted Mercier's usual calm demeanor. The goal that had slipped past him in the final four minutes was perfectly placed—a shot nobody could reasonably blame him for—but goalies processed losses differently. They quantified them and wore them like a second skin.

Across the room, Carver hadn't spoken a word since we'd left the ice. No outbursts or cutting remarks about defensive lapses. He didn't even share his usual sardonic observations about the referee's questionable eyesight.

He was silent as he packed his gear.

TJ waited by the locker room door, bag slung over his shoulder. "You don't want to miss the bus. Everyone's sulking like we lost the cup in game seven instead of a regular season match in fucking November."

I nodded, too drained to muster a more substantial response. TJ hesitated, then shook his head and disappeared down the corridor.

On the bus, I stared out the window as Springfield's streets slid past—convenience stores, closed restaurants, and a park shrouded in late-night darkness. TJ made valiant attempts to resurrect the team's spirit from the back of the bus.

"Anybody want to hear about the time I accidentally messaged Coach's daughter instead of this girl I was seeing?"

A few half-hearted laughs bubbled up. Someone told him to shut up. The conversation sputtered, caught briefly, and then died again.

I watched my breath create expanding circles of fog on the window that shrank and vanished with each exhale. Carver's voice was missing. The seat beside me, where he usually sprawled, knee jutting into the aisle, remained conspicuously empty.

I turned, scanning the bus—once, then again more carefully.

"He's not here," Monroe said from across the aisle, noticing my search. "Carver didn't get on. Saw him talking to Coach as we were loading."

Something about that information raised goosebumps on my forearms. Carver always rode with the team, regardless of his mood. Even after his worst game last season—a match where he'd collected three separate penalties and broken his stick against the boards in frustration—he'd slouched in the back, radiating annoyance but still present.

Back at our home arena, I showered again—a habit my mother called obsessive and I called necessary. Most of the team scattered quickly, eager to put distance between themselves and the loss. I took longer, moving slowly and dwelling on Carver's absence.

What had kept him behind? Why hadn't he rejoined us?

Without thinking about it, I walked back toward the arena proper instead of the exit. The building was different without the press of bodies and the roar of fans—larger somehow, and impossibly old. My footsteps echoed against concrete floors worn smooth by decades of skateguards.

I had no plan, only some inexplicable force that pulled me forward.

The home bench gate stood propped half-open. Through it, I saw a section of the ice, glossy under the solitary spotlight that always remained on overnight.

And there, in the first row of the stands directly across from the penalty box, sat Carver. Alone, unmoving, his silhouette was familiar even in deep shadows. He hunched forward with elbows on his knees, still wearing his team-issued hoodie with the hood pulled up and his gear bag abandoned at his feet.

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