Page 41 of Hard Check

He passed me without stopping or speaking. He only delivered a subtle nod and slightly tilted his head toward a back corridor leading to a janitor's closet.

I counted three seconds and then followed.

The back hallways of the Colisée were a labyrinth in need of maintenance. The concrete walls were painted in fading Forge colors, and exposed pipes ran along low ceilings.

Carver led me past the trainer's office and through the narrow passage where broken sticks accumulated in barrels until we reached the equipment room's rear entrance. The space smelled of grinding metal and leather conditioner. Skate sharpeners lined one wall. Jerseys awaiting repair hung from hooks nearby.

He stopped in the shadow of a tall shelving unit loaded with spare helmet visors and gloves. The distant mechanical hum of the Zamboni vibrated through the walls, a reminder of the game waiting for us.

Carver turned toward me and backed up to the cinder block wall. He grumbled, "Your note was garbage."

"I didn't know what else to say."

"How about 'Goodbye'? Or 'See you at practice'? You could have said literally anything instead of sneaking out like it was a one-night stand."

My face flushed. "I thought you might want space."

"Space." He exhaled sharply through his nose. "If I wanted space, I wouldn't have invited you over."

"For tape review."

"Right. Providence's forecheck. Very educational."

We stood close enough for me to detect the faint scent of his soap—something with sandalwood, masculine but not overpowering. My skin prickled.

I'd expected strategy talk. It would be something about a return to professional boundaries. He might even backpedal or share regrets.

Instead, Carver's gaze dropped to my mouth, and my heart skipped.

He whispered, "Tell me to stop."

I didn't.

Wrapping his right hand around the back of my neck, he pulled me forward with surprising gentleness. When our lips met, it wasn't hesitant or fumbling like the night before. Carver's Kiss was warm and confident.

I reached out for him, gripping his sides. He tasted like the spearmint gum he always chewed before games.

Our tongues brushed, and something electric shot up my spine. It wasn't exploration anymore. It was acknowledgment.

When Carver pulled back, his pupils were dilated, and his breathing had quickened. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to break free.

He exhaled slowly, his hand still warm against my neck. "We need to talk."

Icy fear raced through my veins. "I know."

A burst of laughter echoed from somewhere down the corridor—teammates were approaching. We separated instantly, and our professional space reasserted itself.

Carver's expression shifted back into his familiar public persona. With a slight nod, he slipped past me and disappeared around the corner.

I remained frozen, trying to reorganize my thoughts into some coherent pattern. The taste of him lingered on my lips, and the shape of his hands still burned against my skin.

When I returned to the locker room, it buzzed with pre-game energy. I moved through it like a sleepwalker, present but separated by an invisible barrier.

TJ intercepted me as I reached my stall.

"Earth to Pike." He narrowed his eyes. "Where'd you disappear to? Was about to send a search party."

"Stretching. My knee felt tight."

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