Page 4 of Hard Check

Myalarmjarredmeawake at 5:17 AM, three minutes before I'd set it to go off. I'd barely slept anyway—drifting in and out of consciousness, my mind replaying Coach MacPherson's words on a loop:mentorship program, NHL scouts, expectations.

The pre-dawn darkness still lay heavy over my apartment. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, testing my knee before putting weight on it. It had a dull throb but was manageable—better than the day before.

Outside my kitchen window, the streetlights cast amber pools of light across the empty parking lot, and snow dusted the pavement. Winter in Maine started early and lingered late.

My apartment occupied the second floor of a converted Victorian on Lewiston's east side—one of those buildings with good bones but questionable renovations. High ceilings and original hardwood floors contrasted with kitchen cabinets from a 1990s big-box store and windows that rattled whenever the wind blew from the north.

I'd made halfhearted attempts at personalization. A framed photo of my family at Lake Winnipesaukee sat on the mantel of a non-functional fireplace. My University of Minnesota hockey jersey hung in a shadow box my mother shipped to me, and a vintage Lewiston Forge pennant from the team's 1987 championship season—a flea market find—adorned the wall above my television.

Still, most surfaces remained empty and the walls bare. The place had the unsettled quality of a way station rather than a home.

As coffee brewed, I caught my reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. I looked younger than twenty-three—something about my eyes, maybe, or how I'd never quite grown into the angular jawline that had suddenly appeared when I was sixteen. "NHL material," scouts had started whispering last season, but the face looking back at me still looked like someone playing at adulthood and professionalism.

Standing at the kitchen counter, I ate breakfast and scrolled through my phone. A text from my mother—just a heart emoji, her daily check-in. An email from my agent with another potential endorsement opportunity from a local car dealership. A notification from the Forge's fan page announcing ticket packages for the upcoming home stretch.

For the first time since the injury, I felt something like anticipation rather than dread. Whatever happened on the ice with Carver—however much my inexperience and his criticism stung—at least it would be movement. Forward motion. Something other than the holding pattern of rehab and uncertainty that had defined my summer.

I locked the door behind me, tested the handle twice, and headed for the stairs, each step measured and intentional. Control what you can control. It was what my first coach had taught me and what had carried me from Minnesota high school hockey to the Forge.

The drive to the Colisée took less than ten minutes. I was early. The parking lot was empty save for a maintenance truck, its exhaust puffing out lazy clouds in the cold.

I let myself in through the players' entrance using my access card. Familiar smells washed over me—the sharp bite of refrigeration mixed with decades of sweat and gear.

Even empty hockey rinks were never truly silent. The building hummed with the constant work of keeping the ice frozen—compressors cycling, pipes creaking, and the distant hiss of dehumidifiers.

When I hit the switch, the locker room lights flickered on with an industrial buzz. Empty stalls lined the walls, and nameplates indicated their owners. I occupied a space between Mercier and TJ, separated from the rowdier end where Carver's stall commanded its corner.

Last season, Dane told me TJ had taped his Wayne Gretzky quote—"You miss 100% of the shots you don't take"—inside his stall the day he arrived three seasons ago. Mercier, by contrast, kept his area pristine except for a single photograph of his daughter, positioned so only he could see it during equipment changes.

I'd watched Holt Carver play since I was seventeen—following his career through highlight reels and game footage, studying how he created space in the corners where none should exist. By my first year with the Forge, I'd built him into something more than a teammate. He was a standard against which to measure myself.

As I pulled out my skates, I remembered his words from a practice session last season:

"If you're not paying attention to the details, you're not playing hockey—you're only skating around looking pretty in expensive equipment."

It wasn't addressed to me specifically, but the words defined him for me. Carver was brutally honest, unapologetically direct, and usually right.

What if I couldn't keep up? What if this mentorship confirmed what had worried me since July—that my breakthrough season had been a fluke, and the injury was the universe's way of restoring natural order?

The heavy clank of the arena door interrupted my spiral. I turned quickly to see him standing in the doorway. Carver wore faded jeans and a threadbare Lewiston Forge hoodie. He clutched a thermos clutched in one hand. Beneath disheveled hair, his expression was unreadable.

His face wasn't conventionally handsome. It told a different story—a weather map of experience, all hard angles and history. His nose had been broken at least twice, that I could tell. A thin scar bisected his left eyebrow, permanently interrupting the dark arch.

His eyes held my attention. Dark brown, nearly black in certain light. When he fixed that gaze on you during practice, it stripped away pretense and performance.

"Morning, sunshine." His voice was gravelly like he'd just rolled out of bed. "You're early. Did you catch the worm?"

I straightened, trying to appear more at ease than I felt. "Figured I'd get warmed up."

Carver grunted and dropped his bag onto the bench near his stall. "Smart. How's the knee?"

"Good. Fine."

"Try again." He didn't look up as he began unpacking his gear.

I exhaled slowly. "Stiff. It's better once I start moving around."

He nodded once. "Lesson number one—never bullshit me."

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