Page 5 of Hard Check

The arena opened before us—vast, quiet, and pristine. The empty space magnified every sound: the creak of the boards, whispers of blades against fresh ice, and the percussive tapping of Carver's stick.

"Edges first," he called, gliding backward with deceptive ease. "Let's see what you're working with."

The command was simple enough. Edge work formed the foundation of everything—the alphabet before you formed words. I pushed off, starting with the inside edges, tracing careful arcs from blue line to blue line. The left side felt clean and responsive. The right side made me hesitate, muscles tensing in anticipation of pain.

"Tighter." Carver barked instructions. "Game speed."

I dug deeper on the next pass, forcing myself into sharper turns. My breath fogged in the cold air as I concentrated on maintaining form. Inside edges, outside edges, crossovers, transition turns—the progression moved through a sequence every hockey player knew by heart.

After my third circuit, Carver's voice cut across the ice. "Stop compensating."

I pulled up short, spraying ice. "I'm not—"

"You are." He skated closer to me. "Every defenseman with half a brain will see that hitch and force you right until that knee buckles completely."

Something in his tone pushed me beyond caution. I launched into the following sequence with deliberate force, driving harder into each turn. My knee screamed in protest, but I gritted through it, focusing on proving him wrong rather than protecting myself.

"Better, but still not great."

While executing Carver's puck work drill, I initiated a cutback, and my right blade caught unexpectedly. My weight shifted awkwardly, the puck skittered away, and I barely caught myself before stumbling.

Carver growled. "Jesus Christ, try not to look like a deer on rollerblades next time."

I gritted my teeth and executed the drill four more times. Each attempt was smoother than the last until I projected confidence I hadn't felt since last season.

Through it all, Carver offered nothing resembling praise—only short corrections and minor adjustments. "Not bad," he finally said, retrieving the puck. "You followed instructions well."

A ridiculous surge of pride rose in my chest. "I meant what I said yesterday. I've been watching you since juniors."

"Don't turn it into a hero worship thing. I'm not that guy."

We worked through the remaining pucks. Carver studied me with a penetrating gaze. "Your problem isn't technical skill. It's decision-making under pressure. You panic, get pretty, and forget the fundamentals."

I opened my mouth to object, then closed it. He wasn't entirely wrong. When plays broke down, I sometimes resorted to flashier moves rather than simple solutions.

He pushed me until I was panting for breath. "Break time. Put some ice on it. Not terrible for a first session."

While we skated toward the locker room, I looked at him with new eyes. He read the game like it was a language he'd grown up speaking while I was still sounding out the syllables.

Most of the team wouldn't arrive for another twenty minutes, leaving Carver and me alone in the weight room. I put ice on the knee and willed it to heal faster. Across the room, Carver made notes on the clipboard Coach gave him.

He broke the silence. "Your functional movement is better than I expected, but you're still compensating."

I nodded. "Better than you expected isn't exactly high praise."

The weight room door swung open as two athletic trainers entered, carrying their morning coffee and conversing about someone's fantasy football lineup. Their presence shifted the atmosphere, introducing an audience to our previously private exchange.

With the trainers fully concentrating on their conversation, I asked a question. "Why do you think Coach paired us? Is it just the difference in experience?"

"Partly." Carver took a long drink from a water bottle. "Mostly, he thinks you need someone who'll call you on your bullshit."

I bristled. "I don't—"

"Everyone has bullshit, Pike. Especially guys coming off breakout seasons with scouts circling." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Success messes with your head faster than failure. It makes you think you've got everything figured out."

The assessment hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. In my rookie season, I'd started to believe my own press—the local articles, attention from fans, and the whispers about NHL potential. When Dane finally got called up, and I remained in Lewiston, it was a bitter pill. Then, I got hurt.

"I don't think I have it figured out." My voice was soft. "Not anymore."

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