Page 33 of Hard Check

"You have plenty to show. You've been the backbone of this team longer than—"

"Spare me the greeting card version." He cut me off, but he didn't display any anger. "Save it for the retirement video they'll play on the scoreboard during my last home game. Three minutes of grainy highlights over sad music, and then everyone moves on."

I turned toward him, our knees almost touching. "That's not fair."

"Life's not fair, Pike. I thought hockey would've taught you that already."

"It's taught me plenty." Something in his dismissive language ignited a rare spark of frustration. "It taught me that everyone thinks they know who you are before you step on the ice. It taught me that one good season means nothing if you can't repeat it. It taught me—" I stopped, realizing my voice had risen more than I intended.

Carver looked at me, narrowing his eyes. "Taught you what?"

I exhaled slowly, suddenly feeling exposed. "It taught me that nobody sees what's inside. They only see what you show them."

Carver leaned back, focusing on some distant point beyond the ice.

I broke the silence. "The first time I lost a game that mattered, I was nine. It was regional championships in Minnesota. My line was up when the other team scored in overtime."

"Let me guess—you cried in the locker room."

"Right in front of everyone." I smiled faintly at the memory. "Couldn't stop. My dad was coaching, and all these other kids watched me fall apart. I kept thinking I'd let everyone down."

Carver glanced sideways. "And?"

"And my dad pulled me aside. He didn't yell, and he didn't tell me to toughen up. His only comment was, 'You've got to grow into the pain, Matsson.' Like it was a sweater that was too big."

I paused, remembering the weight of his hand on my shoulder. "Took me years to understand what he meant."

"Which was?"

"That the loss was supposed to hurt. I needed to let it hurt instead of trying to outrun it." I traced an invisible pattern on the armrest between us. "But I think I misunderstood because I spent the next decade trying to be perfect so I'd never feel that way again."

Carver nodded slowly. The arena creaked around us like bones settling after a long day.

"My first coach in juniors—a guy named Winslow—had a system." Carver's voice sounded far away, like he was excavating a long-buried memory. "Every week, he'd pick two players who'd exceeded expectations. They'd get the good stalls, extra ice time, and his personal attention."

He leaned forward, shadows deepening the lines around his mouth. "Week after week, I pushed myself into the ground. Hardest hits, extra drills, first on, last off. Nothing. Not once in two seasons."

"He never picked you?"

"Came close once. Scored a hat trick against our biggest rivals. Thought for sure..." He shook his head. "Found out later, he told the assistant coach I already had enough natural confidence and needed to learn humility."

"That's messed up."

"That's hockey." Carver laughed a mirthless laugh. "I was fifteen when I realized no one was coming to fight for me. If I wanted recognition, I'd have to force them to see me—be louder, hit harder, and make myself impossible to ignore."

"And now?"

"Now I've spent so long being that guy, I don't know how to be anyone else." He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "You know the worst part? I don't think anyone's ever really seen me. Not without the gear, the mouth, and the role I play."

I studied his profile—the sharp angle of his jaw and the furrowed concentration between his brows. He was allowing me a peek beyond the façade he presented to the team.

"I see you, Carver, even when you're doing your best to stay hidden."

"Do you?"

"I see how you stay late to work with Monroe on his wrist shots when you think no one's watching. I see how you memorize everyone's coffee orders for early practices and how you carry the weight of losses for the whole team, even when everyone else has moved on."

His expression changed, defensiveness giving way to something that looked almost like relief. As if he'd been carrying something heavy for miles and finally had permission to set it down.

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