Page 32 of Hard Check

I hesitated at the mouth of the tunnel, suddenly uncertain. I wasn't sure what to do next.

Carver didn't move, though he must have heard me approach. His attention remained fixed on the empty ice as if deciphering messages on its scarred surface.

I spoke softly. "Hey," and my voice echoed in the emptiness.

Carver didn't flinch. I wondered whether he'd heard me at all.

His voice was gravelly when he responded minutes later. "You lost too, you know. Don't expect a pep talk."

I climbed the three steps from the rink and settled near him, leaving exactly one seat between us. Not too close and not too far.

Above us, the rafters disappeared into the darkness where championship banners hung like sleeping bats, years of history suspended over our heads. Below, the ice gleamed under the solitary spotlight, a perfect circle of white surrounded by deepening shadow—like us, I thought suddenly, illuminated at this moment while everything else receded.

Pulling words out of thin air, I spoke about memories. "I used to do this as a kid. Sit in empty rinks. Sometimes for hours."

"Because you're weird?"

"Probably." I smiled. "My dad coached youth teams. We'd get to the rink at five in the morning, and I'd sit. I listened to the building waking up—the compressors humming and the first scrape of the Zamboni."

"Poetic."

Another stretch of silence filled the space between us.

I finally spoke up. "You weren't on the bus."

"Observant, too. Talented and perceptive—what can't Matsson Pike do?"

I didn't rise to the bait. "Did Coach keep you behind?"

"No. Just didn't feel like being trapped in a metal tube with twenty guys trying to convince themselves they don't care about losing."

"But you care."

Carver's shoulders tensed. "Everyone cares. Some hide it better."

"Is that what you're doing? Hiding?"

He turned, and the hood fell back slightly, enough that I could see his eyes catch the distant glow from the ice. "That what you think this is?"

"I think..." I paused, choosing my words carefully. "I think there's more eating at you than tonight's game."

"Got your psychology degree while I wasn't looking?" His words were suddenly harder, more defensive.

"No. But I've been watching you. All season."

"Pike, you should go."

"Probably."

Neither of us moved.

He spoke so softly I could barely understand the words. "It wasn't supposed to end like this."

"The game?"

"My career." He continued to whisper. "Six seasons grinding it out in this town. Never made it further. Now it's almost over, and what the hell do I have to show for it?"

The raw honesty stunned me. I'd suspected his early-morning meeting with Coach had been about retirement, but hearing the confirmation—and the wounded pride beneath it—raised a lump in the back of my throat.

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