Page 47 of Hard Check

"Last rule." He exhaled deeply. "We're honest with each other. About everything. Especially the hard stuff."

That one caught me off guard. Carver wasn't known for his emotional transparency.

"Honesty?"

"Yeah. If we're risking this much, lying to each other makes it worse. I want to know when you're frustrated or scared or when your knee feels like it will collapse. And I'll tell you—" He looked at the floor for a moment. "I'll tell you when retirement is eating me alive."

His requests were startling in their simplicity—three rules to navigate our uncharted territory.

"I can do that," I said.

"You sure? Because once we start this, backing out is messier."

I studied his face—the shadows beneath his eyes and the stubble along his jaw. I'd never wanted anything the way I wanted something to work with Carver.

"I'm sure. Are you?"

He nearly laughed. "No, but I'm doing it anyway."

Footsteps in the hallway sent us springing apart. My heart nearly exploded as I scrambled for something to look at. I grabbed a roll of stick tape from a nearby shelf as the door swung open.

Coach stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene—me clutching random tape and Carver suddenly fascinated by a skate blade.

"Gentlemen, are we taking inventory after hours?"

Carver recovered first. "Pike needed specific tape. Monroe's been hoarding the good stuff."

I held up the roll, praying my face wasn't as flushed as it felt. "Found it."

Coach's gaze lingered on us a moment longer. "Team bus leaves at seven tomorrow. Don't be late." He turned to go and then paused in the doorway. "Pike?"

"Yes, Coach?"

"That's goalie tape. Wrong pattern for stick handles."

The door closed behind him, leaving us in stunned silence until Carver's shoulders began to shake with suppressed laughter.

"Smooth. Real smooth."

I stared at the wide, padded tape in my hand and felt ridiculous. "So much for secrecy."

"Hey." Carver stepped close again. "It's okay. He didn't see anything."

"I should get back before TJ sends a search party."

"Yeah."

For a flicker of a second, Carver's hand brushed mine again, a deliberate touch so slight it might have been imaginary. Then, he was gone, slipping through the door and back into the realm where we were only teammates, mentor and mentee, nothing more.

I waited thirty seconds before following, counting breaths to slow my racing pulse. Three rules. It was the structure meant to contain whatever was burning between us.

It wouldn't be enough, but it was a beginning.

The road between Lewiston and Springfield curved like a slumbering snake, endless and hypnotic. Our team bus hummed along the interstate, most guys dozing with headphones clamped over their ears or buried in game footage on tablets.

I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass, watching my breath fog the surface in expanding circles. Sleep had proven impossible despite the gentle rocking motion. My thoughts circled back to Carver, our rules, and the electricity that seemed to arc between us, even across the crowded bus.

He sat three rows ahead, his dark hair barely visible over the seat back. We'd boarded separately, careful not to disrupt our usual routines. I always sat mid-bus; he preferred the back corner, where fewer people bothered him. Today, though, he'd chosen a spot closer to the front, breaking his pattern.

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