Page 40 of Hard Check

The words were insufficient—almost unbearably small compared to what happened between us. But what else could I say? That I couldn't stop thinking about his mouth? That I was terrified of what it meant? That I wanted more and didn't know how to ask for it?

I placed the note on the counter where he'd find it, propped against a half-empty bottle of bourbon. From down the hall came another soft exhale. I paused, listening to that steady rhythm one last time, before slipping out the front door and into the cold.

When I arrived at The Colisée after lunch and a nap at home, it loomed against the late afternoon sky. I trudged across the parking lot, my boots carving dark impressions in the otherwise pristine blanket of now.

I was three hours early for pre-game warmups. That would give me plenty of time to sort through the mess in my head before facing opposition on the ice.

Inside, the arena's familiar scent greeted me—refrigeration chemicals, rubber mats, and that indefinable metallic tang that permeated every hockey rink I'd ever known. The corridors echoed with my solitary footsteps. This far ahead of game time, the building was like a church hours before Sunday services—reverent, expectant, waiting to be filled with noise and purpose.

In the locker room, I found Monroe already taping a stick with a methodical focus. He glanced up.

"Heard you got stranded in the storm."

My pulse quickened. "Yeah. Power went out at Carver's place."

"At Carver's? That's where?" Monroe raised an eyebrow. "Mentorship program's really working out then."

"Just reviewing tape." I dropped my bag at my stall. "Providence's forecheck patterns."

"TJ said he tried calling you. Wanted to know if you'd drowned in a snowbank."

The mention of TJ sent a dart of anxiety through me. He noticed everything and made jokes about everything. He must have been the one who figured out I was stranded. If anyone could read the shift between Carver and me, it would be him.

I began my pre-game routine with deliberate precision, arranging each piece of equipment in its designated spot. The familiarity of the actions soothed my jangled nerves. Stick. Skates. Pads. Jersey.

Mercier arrived next, nodding silently before claiming his corner stall. The goalie's presence steadied me. He never demanded conversation to fill the silence.

The room gradually populated with bodies and voices. Warm-up music thumped through portable speakers. Someone complained about road conditions. Another voice debated tonight's starting lineup.

Suddenly, Carver's voice cut through the chatter from the doorway.

"Hope you boys skated this morning. The ice is garbage after the power outage."

I kept my head down, pretending to be absorbed in my pre-game stretching. From the corner of my eye, I kept an eye on Carver. His body language didn't hint at what had happened between us.

When he settled into his stall, he turned his head to watch me. The expression was unreadable. He didn't smile or nod. Only observed.

TJ stepped between us, blocking my view. "Pike! Thought the snow swallowed you whole."

"Almost." I forced a grin. "Car nearly got stuck three times on the way back from Carver's."

"Carver's?" TJ's expression brightened. I feared what mischief he was planning. "You two are having slumber parties now? Do you braid each other's hair?"

Carver interrupted. "We were watching tape. You might try it if you want your assists to improve."

The engagement wasn't unusual. Carver often shut down TJ's teasing with precision strikes.

Coach entered with his clipboard, and the room's energy shifted into pre-game focus. He outlined matchups and key points, voice gruff and certain.

I tried to concentrate on his words instead of my awareness of Carver ten feet away. It was nearly impossible to drive the memory of his mouth out of my mind.

When Coach dismissed us for individual preparation, I exhaled—thirty minutes until warmups.

I retreated to my corner as my teammates dispersed to finish their preparations. I needed to center myself and focus on the upcoming game.

Looking for solitude in the weight room, I balanced on one leg near the training tables, stretching my hamstrings. My knee was solid—no warning throbs or whispers of instability.

I heard footsteps behind me as I headed into the hallway to return to the locker room. It was the familiar cadence of Carver's stride.

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