Page 49 of Hard Check

"Think he went to call his mom."

The statement was plausible—Carver did call his mother after games, though usually from the privacy of his hotel room. He told me he used to talk to his brother all the time, but that ended after a brutal car accident.

I waited three minutes before excusing myself to use the bathroom.

The hallway behind the bar was considerably darker than the main room, lit by a single bulb with a yellowed glass shade. The men's room door stood slightly ajar on the left, while the women's remained firmly closed on the right. Beyond them, the corridor hooked sharply right, leading to a fire exit and what appeared to be a storage closet.

I glanced back toward the main bar, ensuring no one had followed, before proceeding past the bathrooms. Around the corner, the lighting dimmed further, casting the narrow space in deep shadows.

"Took you long enough."

Carver's voice emerged from the darkness as his hand closed around my wrist, tugging me forward. He'd positioned himself in the recessed doorway of the storage room, deep in the shadows.

"Had to wait. Mercier's watching."

"Mercier's always watching." He pulled me closer until my chest brushed his. "It's the goalie in him. Notices everything."

"You think he knows?" I asked, suddenly anxious.

Carver's hand released my wrist to settle on my hip, firm and possessive. "No, but he notices patterns. We need to be careful."

He rubbed small circles with his thumb. "I've been thinking about this all day. Watching you on the ice, the way you move..." He exhaled sharply. "Driving me fucking crazy, Pike."

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Anyone could walk down the hallway—a teammate, bartender, or a random patron looking for the bathroom.

I challenged Carver. "Then do something about it."

He gripped the back of my neck and pulled me into a kiss that stole my breath. Unlike our previous kisses, this one was hungry and sure.

Carver kissed the way he played hockey—with intensity and precision, paying attention to what worked and adjusting accordingly. When I gasped as his teeth grazed my lower lip, he did it again, harder.

A burst of laughter from the main room dragged me back to awareness. I broke the kiss, breathless and dizzy.

"What if someone sees?"

"Then I guess we move faster." There was just enough ambient light to watch his mouth curve into a smile. "But no one's coming this way. TJ just started karaoke."

As if on cue, TJ's voice bellowed through the bar's sound system, a mangled version of "Sweet Caroline" that would make Neil Diamond weep.

I laughed softly, forehead dropping to rest against Carver's shoulder. "This is insane."

"Completely, and we should get back before they notice."

"Probably."

I turned to head back to the rest of the team, and Carver gripped my wrist again. "I switched rooms," he whispered.

"Switched?"

"Told Coach I had some more mentoring pointers to share. Mercier's going to stay with the Jameson zombie."

The revelation that Carver had orchestrated room changes—that he'd planned for us to be together—made my spine tingle.

He kissed me once more, softer but no less intense. "Later."

When I rejoined our table, TJ was finishing his butchered rendition of "Sweet Caroline" to thunderous applause. I settled back into my seat, accepting a fresh beer from Monroe and forcing myself to focus on the conversation around me. But beneath the surface banter, my mind remained fixed on a single thought:

Later.

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