Page 39 of Hard Check

Pike turned back to me. "What happens in the morning? When the power's back on and the roads are clear. What then?"

It was the question I wanted to avoid. I had no clear answer. What were we in the locker room, on the ice, and in the real world beyond our snow-insulated bubble?

"I don't know. This wasn't in my plans."

Pike smiled, and I saw a hint of his usual sunshine in his eyes. "What, the veteran player doesn't have contingencies for everything?"

"They didn't cover the protocols for what to do if you kiss your second-season mentee during a blizzard in orientation."

He laughed softly. It dissipated some of the tension. "We could pretend it never happened."

I shook my head. "Too late for that."

"Yeah." He twisted the glass between his palms. "Too late." After another long pause, he asked, "Can I stay?"

The question was practical—the roads were impassable.

"Yes, but Pike... I need time to figure this out. We both do."

He nodded, understanding what I meant. Whatever was happening between us needed space to breathe before we defined it.

"I've got a spare room, and the sheets are clean."

He delivered a genuine smile. "Didn't have you pegged as someone who'd have a guest room."

"It's not by choice. It came with the place." I stood, stretching muscles stiff from sitting too long in one position. "I'll grab you something to sleep in."

Whether I was ready for it or not, Pike had worked his way under my armor. And despite all the complications, uncertainty, and potential for disaster, I couldn't bring myself to regret it.

Not the kiss.

Not the confession.

Not any of it.

Chapter ten

Pike

Thebedsheettangledaroundmy ankles, unfamiliar in texture and weight. For a disoriented moment, I couldn't remember where I was until I spotted a battered stereo system perched atop a scratched wooden side table.

Beside it stood a precarious tower of CDs—Springsteen's weathered face on one, the angry red lettering of Rage Against the Machine on another, and between them, a blank disc with "Summer '16" scrawled across it in black Sharpie.

It was Carver's guest room. I lay on my back, absorbing the details in the early morning light.

The room was neither neglected nor particularly cared for—only existing in a state of suspended animation. A tattered Soundgarden poster clung to the far wall. Near the window, a hockey gear bag had been shoved beneath a dresser, its contents probably forgotten seasons ago.

It was like opening a time capsule to parts of Carver he didn't share with teammates. I was getting glimpses of preferences and phases of his life that existed outside the arena.

From beyond the partially open door came the soft, rhythmic sounds of his breathing. It wasn't quite a snore—more like the ocean waves at low tide, persistent and strangely soothing.

I slid from beneath the covers and padded across the room. The morning stretched between us, blank and unwritten. What would we say when his eyes opened? Would he look at me with regret or, worse, with nothing at all?

The warmth of our connection the night before felt fragile in the cold morning light. Maybe that kiss was an anomaly, somehow connected with the blizzard.

I dressed and gathered my belongings, slipping them into my pockets. In the kitchen, I located a notepad with a local hardware store logo and a pen that barely worked.

Thanks for the shelter. You're a surprisingly decent host. -P

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