Page 44 of Hard Check

I knew that I should do something other than sit there, marinating in my circling thoughts. When I tried, my limbs were heavy, anchored to the wooden bench.

I wanted Pike to succeed. I wanted him to have his debut in the show, but that meant—

Movement at the periphery of my vision caught my attention. Pike stood at his stall, still in his base layers, hair askew from where he'd tugged his practice jersey off. He wasn't talking to anyone—unusual for him. He wasn't even moving, just standing there, half-turned toward me, clearly waiting.

I kept my head down and pretended to concentrate on unwrapping the tape from my socks. My fingers worked methodically while my ears strained to hear any sounds of him approaching.

None came.

By the time I'd stripped the last of the tape away and balled it up, most of the team was gone. Pike remained, now dressed in street clothes, perched on the edge of his stall. He was patient.

I took my time gathering my things, moving slowly, hoping he'd give up. Take the hint. Celebrate his impending ascent with people who deserved to share in it.

Finally, Pike stood. He didn't look angry—maybe some disappointment. Then, I saw his eyes. Unshed tears glistened in the corners.

Damn! He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He finally turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the concrete corridor beyond the locker room.

I sat alone in the empty locker room, hating how much it ached to watch him leave. How many times had I seen teammates walk away before? Dozens. Hundreds, maybe, over the years. Players moved up or out constantly in the minors. It was the natural order of things.

This one time felt different. It was like watching someone take a piece of me with them.

Almost-made-it guys like me were cautionary tales in locker rooms across the league. We were the veterans who hung on too long and turned bitter watching kids leap past us on their way to the show.

I'd sworn I'd never become that guy—clutching at younger players' jerseys, trying to drag them down to my level out of spite or fear. And yet, there I sat. Alone by choice. Pushing away the one person who'd made me feel something other than resignation about my final season.

I told myself it had to be that way. It was better to push Pike away now before I became the mistake in his past that scouts whispered about during evaluations.

I'd give him the one gift I could offer. I'd make it easy for him to leave.

I was on my way down the hall toward the exit when the door ahead of me opened. I knew who it was before I saw him.

The sunshine had left Pike's face, but he returned. He stood with his legs shoulder-length apart and folded his arms over his chest.

"Are you going to talk to me, or will you keep pretending I don't exist?"

I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Didn't realize we had anything to discuss."

"Bullshit." The word wasn't loud, but it hit hard.

I tried to be casual in my response and missed by a mile. "Look, we won the game. We're doing fine on the ice. Let's just—"

"You've been a ghost since the storm."

He took a step forward and unfolded his arms. For a split second, I thought Mr. Sunshine might hit me.

"One minute we're..." he faltered, then regrouped, "and the next you won't even look at me. What changed?"

"Nothing changed. That's the point." I gestured vaguely between us. "This—whatever happened—it was a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"I'm not what you need right now."

He clenched his jaw. "You don't get to decide that."

"Don't I?" My voice rose despite my efforts to keep it level. "You've got scouts watching you now, actual NHL scouts, Pike. You're twenty-three with your whole career ahead of you, and you're... what? Kissing a washed-up has-been during a snowstorm? What the hell kind of future is that?"

Pike stood his ground. "Is that really what this is about? My future?"

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