Page 48 of Hard Check

When most of the bus had fallen asleep, I saw movement in the aisle. Carver appeared, water bottle in hand, making his way toward the bathroom at the rear. As he passed my row, his shoulder bumped mine.

"Sorry." He pitched his voice loud enough for others to hear.

"No problem," I answered, equally loud.

He continued past, but the warmth of his touch lingered on my arm. Looking back at the window, I watched my reflection smile.

Springfield's ice gleamed under bright arena lights, freshly resurfaced for our warmup skate. Coach divided us into lines for passing drills, barking instructions that echoed in the empty building.

For forty-five minutes, we were purely professional, focused entirely on the task at hand. I settled into the rhythm of practice. My knee was solid, with no warning twinges or phantom pains.

Near the end of the session, Coach called us together for a five-on-five scrimmage. I found myself on Carver's line, the two of us paired with TJ, Monroe, and Mercier against the second line.

"Keep it clean," Coach instructed. "Game speed, but no contact."

The whistle blew, and we scattered into position. Carver hovered on the blue line while I circled deep, drawing the defense toward me. Without looking, I knew exactly where he'd be—just as he seemed to know my trajectory before I moved.

"Jesus," TJ muttered as we regrouped. "Did you guys practice that?"

I shook my head, unable to explain the connection unfolding between us. It wasn't only chemistry. It was choreography. Like we were writing something together, and only we knew the steps.

After the third time we connected for a scoring chance, Coach blew his whistle, bringing the scrimmage to a halt. "Pike, Carver." He beckoned us over. "Whatever you two are doing, bottle it. That's the kind of anticipation I want to see tonight."

Carver nodded. "Just working on the mentorship stuff you assigned, Coach."

"It's paying dividends. Keep it up."

As we skated back to position, Carver's glove brushed mine—another touch that could be dismissed as accidental but wasn't. It was so subtle that no one else would notice, yet it shot through me like lightning.

We were playing two games now: hockey and whatever lay beneath it. The currents ran parallel, sometimes merging and sometimes diverging—both required concentration.

***

The Rusty Puck was the kind of dive bar that seemed to exist outside of time—neon beer signs with burnt-out letters, dark wood worn smooth by decades of elbows, and a jukebox that hadn't updated its playlist since the early 2000s. It smelled of spilled beer and ancient fryer oil.

For The Forge, it also smelled like victory.

We'd beaten Springfield 4-2, snapping their six-game home winning streak. My goal in the second period tied the game, and Carver's assist on TJ's rocket from the point in the third gave us the lead. The rest of the team stormed the ice when the final buzzer sounded, mobbing Mercier for his thirty-eight saves.

Wedged into a semicircular booth with half the team, I sipped a beer and soaked in the rare, uncomplicated joy of a road win. Everyone was buying rounds. TJ had commandeered the jukebox, feeding it quarters for songs that made Coach wince from his corner seat at the bar.

Monroe raised a glass. "To Pike's filthy fucking deke that made their defenseman look like he was skating in cement!"

A chorus of cheers erupted. I grinned, accepting the praise while trying not to seem too pleased with myself.

TJ added his praise. "And to Carver for not getting tossed into the penalty box for once." He clinked his beer bottle against Carver's. "Your assist was almost as pretty as your face."

"Careful, Jameson. Keep complimenting me, and I'll start to think you care."

The table erupted in laughter. I allowed myself to look at Carver, really look, for the first time since we'd left the arena. His hair was still damp from his post-game shower, pushed back from his forehead in careless waves. A day's worth of stubble darkened his jaw, and his eyes reflected the colored lights from the neon signs above the bar.

He caught me looking and held my gaze for a beat. Then, he lifted his beer in a small salute meant only for me before turning his attention back to the group.

The party expanded as the night wore on. Several local fans had recognized us, sending over pitchers and asking for autographs on napkins and coasters. I signed a few, smiling for photos and doing the good-sport routine that came so naturally to me.

When I returned from one such interaction, Carver had vanished from our table.

I scanned the bar, finding no trace of him. Mercier caught my confused expression and jerked his chin toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.

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