Page 36 of Hard Check

"You're a terrible liar, Sunshine."

He laughed. "Fine, it's all garbage. Salt, sugar, and preservatives." He pulled out a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips—my favorite, though I couldn't remember mentioning that. "So, where's this Providence tape you were so eager to study?"

"Right." I gestured vaguely toward the television. "I've got it queued up."

That was a lie. I hadn't touched my laptop since sending the text, and I had no intention of subjecting either of us to game footage for the entire evening. It was a pretense designed to give us both something to hide behind.

Pike settled onto the couch, his long frame making my secondhand furniture look even shabbier than it was. I sat on the opposite end, far enough away to avoid accidental contact.

I found the Providence game, and it soon filled the screen as I mirrored my laptop to the television. The players moved with those mechanical, practiced motions they repeated thousands of times a season.

"That forecheck is brutal." Pike pointed at the screen. "It makes me feel better about how they bottled us up in the third period."

"Mmm." I was hardly listening. The floor lamp in the corner cast shadows across Pike's profile, highlighting the sharp edge of his cheekbone and the slight furrow that appeared between his brows when he concentrated.

"You're not watching."

I blinked. "What?"

"The tape. You're not watching it." He glanced sideways at me.

"I was thinking about the penalty kill." It was another lie, only twenty minutes into his visit.

"Right." He was quiet for another moment and then asked a question. "Is this weird? Me being here?"

"No. Why would it be weird?" I reached for my beer without looking at him.

"Because of what almost happened. At the arena."

My grip tightened around the bottle. He was goingthere. "Nothing happened."

"But it almost did."

I fixed my gaze on the television, where number 27 from Providence lined up a slap shot from the blue line. "We don't need to talk about it. It was a moment. We were both... I don't know. Neither of us was thinking clearly."

Pike's shoulders tensed. "Right. Not thinking clearly. That's one explanation."

Another stretch of silence followed, punctuated only by the television and the increasing howl of wind outside.

I was grateful for the opportunity to talk about the weather. "Storm's picking up."

"Yeah. They're saying it might be the biggest since—"

Suddenly, the room plunged into darkness, cutting Pike off mid-sentence. The television died, along with every lamp and the reassuring hum of my ancient refrigerator. Only the ghostly blue light of my laptop running on batteries remained.

I growled. "Perfect timing."

"You have candles? Flashlights?" Pike spoke from the shadows cast by the ambient glow from my laptop.

"Yeah. Hold on." I stepped carefully across my apartment toward the kitchen junk drawer, where I kept emergency supplies. My fingers closed around a heavy-duty flashlight, and I clicked it on.

The harsh white light exposed Pike's face. His eyes were wide, and his hair slightly mussed from where he'd run his hand through it.

He squinted against the brightness. "You look like you're about to interrogate me."

"Sorry." I lowered the beam. "There're some candles in the bathroom cabinet. Give me a minute."

"I'll help." He followed me down the short hallway.

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