Page 34 of Hard Check

"You've been paying attention."

"More than I probably should have."

We were both silent again for almost five minutes.

"Why are you here, Pike? Really?"

I gave him an honest answer. "I don't know. Somehow, I knew you would be. And I couldn't leave you alone with it."

"With what?"

"Whatever's been weighing on you since that meeting with Coach. I guess it's everything that goes with retirement."

He nodded slowly. "It feels like drowning. The thing that's defined me is ending, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

"It's not ending tonight."

"No, but soon enough."

"Then what happens next?"

Carver exhaled. "Coach mentioned coaching, staying with the organization, working with rookies, and developing new talent. Not sure I have the temperament for all of that."

"I think you'd be amazing." The certainty in my voice surprised me. "You see things others miss and know how to push without breaking people."

"That what I've done with you? Pushed without breaking?"

I gave him a simple answer. "You've made me better, on the ice and off it, too, maybe."

Carver studied me. The light from the ice reflected off his eyes, turning them from their usual dark brown to something more complex—amber flecks in burnt umber.

"You shine too bright to waste, Pike."

He wasn't speaking as my mentor or teammate but as someone watching me with the same careful attention I'd given him. My breath caught in my throat. The sensation wasn't like missing a pass or taking a hit—it was closer to the suspended moment before a puck drop.

"I'm not—" I started, unsure how to continue.

He interrupted me. "You are. You've got this light that doesn't dim, even when it should. Even after losses. Even with that knee. It's fucking annoying sometimes."

There was the Carver I knew, wrapping sincerity in a protective layer of gruffness. "Thanks," I said. "I think."

"Not a compliment. An observation."

I became acutely aware of how close we'd drifted—our shoulders nearly touching, knees angled toward each other. Something shifted in his expression—a subtle change I might have missed if I hadn't watched so intently. His gaze dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes.

My heart hammered against my ribs. The dream from a few nights ago resurfaced with vivid clarity—his mouth on mine, the texture of his stubble, and the weight of his body. This wasn't a dream. It was Carver, real and solid before me, watching me with an expression I couldn't fully decipher.

I leaned forward—barely—testing the boundary of this new, uncharted space between us. I wasn't bold enough to rush into anything, but intentional enough that he would notice if he were paying attention.

He was paying attention.

Time seemed to stretch and slow, each heartbeat an eternity. I found myself staring at his mouth—the pronounced curve of his upper lip and how it parted slightly as if preparing to speak or—

A tremendous clatter echoed from the service corridor—metal against concrete, followed by muffled cursing. We jerked apart instinctively, our moment shattering like thin ice under unexpected weight.

"What the—" Carver stood.

A maintenance worker appeared at the tunnel entrance, wrestling with an overturned cart of cleaning supplies. She glanced up, startled to find the arena occupied.

---