Page 42 of Hard Check

"Right." TJ leaned against the adjacent stall. "Nothing to do with why Carver's suddenly acting like someone stole his favorite chew toy?"

"What?"

TJ jerked his chin toward the far side of the room. Carver sat methodically, lacing his skates. There was something tightly coiled in his posture—a contained energy that wasn't a usual part of his pre-game routine.

"Man's wound tighter than Mercier's goalie pads. Did you two have a mentor-mentee squabble during your blizzard bonding?"

"Everything's fine."

"Sure." TJ clapped my shoulder before retreating to his own preparation, but the interaction left me feeling exposed as if my skin had thinned to transparency.

Coach's whistle cut through the pre-game chatter. "Five minutes, gentlemen. Channel that energy where it belongs—on the ice, not in your mouths."

I mechanically completed my equipment check—the rhythmic pattern of securing each piece and testing each strap. I carried it out on autopilot while my mind replayed the moment in the equipment room with unsettling clarity.

Carver's mouth. Carver's hands. Carver's voice, low and certain:We need to talk.

What did he want to say? That it was a mistake? That we needed to stop before it affected the team? Or something else entirely?

I pulled my jersey over my head, the familiar weight settling across my shoulders. Number 12 in silver and black. A concrete identity when everything else was uncertain.

As we lined up for the walk to the ice, Carver fell into position three players ahead of me. I stared at his broad shoulders.

When he glanced back over his shoulder, our eyes connected. Something passed between us—not a message, more like a current.

The muffled roar of the crowd filtered through the tunnel as the doors opened. Cold air rushed in off the ice. Our world would contract to a slick sheet and a six-ounce puck for the next three periods. Everything else—questions, kisses, confusions—would have to wait.

I followed my teammates toward the light and noise, but with each step, I considered what happened in the hallway. I'd followed Carver, thinking he'd advise me about the game ahead. Instead, he'd given me something that made the solid ground beneath my skates feel precarious.

And now, I didn't know how to play the game we'd started.

Chapter eleven

Carver

Ishoweduphalfanhour before anyone else usually did, desperate for empty echoes and the scrape of only my skates against fresh ice. Instead, I found him. Of course, he would be there. We couldn't escape each other.

Pike cut across the rink in tight figure-eights, each stride precise and controlled. His breath hung in white clouds behind him like breadcrumbs marking his path. He wasn't practicing anything specific—only moving, testing the edges of his skates against the ice with unconscious joy.

I stood in the shadows of the tunnel, my bag heavy on my shoulder. Last night's win should've left me floating. Instead, I felt leaden, uncertainty tugging at my joints.

That kiss in the storm had changed something. The brash second one in the hallway shifted everything.

Pike spotted me, and his whole body brightened. It wasn't only his face—though that megawatt smile could've powered the entire Colisée. He lifted his stick in greeting.

I grunted something meaningless and turned away, retreating to the locker room instead of joining him. The concrete walls steadied me.

My stall looked the same as yesterday and the five-and-a-half seasons that came before. My nameplate was slightly crooked from where TJ knocked into it last week.

I started lacing up, fingers working numbly while my mind raced. Pike's trajectory pointed up. He was young—twenty-three. He had hands soft enough to settle pucks like they were spooked birds.

And me? I was thirty-one with knees that creaked on cold mornings. I had a body that required twice the maintenance it did at twenty-three. Each new bruise faded slower than the last, and each muscle recovery took a day longer than the year before.

Forty minutes later, I was finishing an impromptu workout in the weight room when the door opened. I didn't need to look up to know it was Pike. The air changed when he entered a room.

He tested me with an attempt at clever rapport. "Thinking of starting a one-man bench press competition?"

I kept my eyes on the clipboard where I'd been tracking sets and reps. "Finishing up."

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