Page 43 of Hard Check

"Here, I thought you were avoiding me." It was a weak joke, but it had an edge of truth.

After the last rep, I looked at him. His hair was damp at the temples, cheeks flushed from exertion on the ice. He was only eight years behind me, but he appeared so young.

"Not everything's about you, Pike." The words came out sharper than I'd intended.

His smile faded.

"Got it." He nodded and turned toward the door. "See you at practice, then."

He left, and I sat there feeling like I'd just slammed myself into the boards.

***

Practice was halfway through when Coach blew his whistle with three short, decisive blasts. We gathered at center ice. I deliberately positioned myself between Mercier and TJ, across the circle from Pike.

Coach's voice sounded like he'd been eating gravel. "Gentlemen, we've got a visitor today."

He gestured toward the stands where a man in navy blue team gear sat with a clipboard balanced on his knee. The logo was unmistakable—Syracuse Sentinels, a recent NHL expansion club.

"Mr. Halloran's keeping tabs on a few of you," He paused. "But mostly Pike."

A murmur rippled through our team huddle. I kept my face blank, but my stomach collapsed like a poorly constructed dock in a hurricane. I listened to reactions from the team:

"About damn time—"

"—NHL money, baby—"

"—Pike's gonna buy the first round when—"

Pike himself stood silent, glancing from Coach to the scout and then to me. I looked away.

"Alright, back to work," Coach barked. "Two-on-one rush drills. Mercier is in the net, and Jameson and Carver are defending first. Pike and Lambert, you're up."

My legs moved automatically, skating backward to position. Defense wasn't my natural spot, but I'd played it enough in practice to know the angles. TJ slid beside me, tapping my shin guard with his stick.

"You good? You look like someone pissed in your protein shake."

"I'm fine." I executed the drill on autopilot.

It wasn't enough to stop the golden boy. Pike accelerated past me like I was standing still. I pivoted hard, overcorrecting, and slammed into TJ, who'd come over to help. We crashed into the boards with a sickening crack that silenced the rink.

"What the fuck, Carver?" TJ shouted, shoving me back.

Coach's whistle pierced the air. "Goddamnit, Carver! Watch your positioning!"

I untangled myself from TJ, muttering apologies. Pike skated over with concern etched across his features. He stopped just short of touching my arm but leaned toward me like a compass finding north.

"You okay? That looked rough."

The genuine worry in his voice scraped against my raw nerves. I straightened my helmet.

"You've got bigger eyes on you today. Go impress them."

Pike's expression shifted—surprise, confusion, hurt—before hardening into something I couldn't read. He backed away without another word, rejoining our teammates at the blue line.

Coach assigned me to the bench for the remainder of the drill. I watched Pike score twice more, each goal more impressive than the last. The scout made notes, his finger dancing across his tablet.

When practice wrapped up, and we returned to the locker room, I sat in my stall, a towel draped over my head like a monk's cowl. Water from my shower dripped down my spine in a cold trail.

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