Page 53 of Hard Check

Iburiedmyfaceinthe pillow.

"IthoughtmaybeIwasallergictosomething.Latex.Lube.You."

Carvergrinned likehewaswatchingthebestsitcomrerunofhislife.

"You're allergic to being too uptight. That's all. Take a piss, wash your junk, and let's call it even."

Hepausedfordramaticeffect, and then he waggled his brows

"…Unlessyouwantmetoinspectthedamage.Professionally."

Ithrewapillowathishead.Hedodgedit,stillsmugashell.

Butyeah—Igotupandwenttoshower.Fast.

Becauselovemightbeblind,butitshouldn'tbeitchy.

Chapter thirteen

Carver

Thedepressioninthemattress remained where Pike had abandoned his side of the bed. I blinked awake, disoriented by his absence, my hand reaching across sheets still warm from his body. Six-thirty, according to the clock—hours before either of us needed to be at the rink.

We'd spent enough nights together that Pike's absence felt wrong, like missing the last step on a familiar staircase. It hadn't taken long to grow accustomed to his particular breathing rhythm and how he radiated heat as we edged toward a Maine winter.

On the nightstand, a folded scrap of paper propped against my phone caught my attention. I recognized the back of a gas station receipt; Pike's hasty scrawl covered the blank side.

Early call with my agent. Didn't want to wake you—your growling is scarier before coffee. Left protein shakes in your fridge. The ones you pretend to hate but always drink. See you at practice. -P

I snorted, tucking the note into my nightstand drawer where I'd stashed the others—little breadcrumbs of evidence marking whatever trail we were blazing together. The drawer was my little archive of Pike's peculiar mix of thoughtfulness and humor.

I pushed myself upright, rolling shoulders still pleasantly sore from the night before. The memory of Pike's mouth and grazing of teeth against my collarbone sent a shiver up my spine.

In the bathroom, evidence of him remained—a damp towel hung with military precision and his toothbrush leaning against mine in the holder. I'd never allowed those kinds of intrusions into my space before. Pike had a way of slipping past barriers I'd spent years constructing, making himself at home in corners of my life I'd kept empty.

I'd had sex before. Rough, fast, sometimes even good, but never like this. It never felt like someone was seeing inside me, not only taking something from me. The intimacy of it caught me off-guard.

In the kitchen, I found the protein shakes he'd mentioned arranged in a neat row in my refrigerator. Chocolate peanut butter—the ones I complained about but always finished. It had only been a week and a half, and the thought of returning to mornings without him already sounded impossible.

The Colisée greeted me with familiar sounds—the mechanical hum of cooling systems, rubber-soled footsteps echoing off the concrete, and the distant scrape of the Zamboni finishing its morning pass. Rink sounds had been the soundtrack to my life for over two decades. Still, lately, they'd taken on a different quality—expectant, almost, as if the building anticipated Pike's arrival as much as I did.

I exchanged nods with Phil at security and a grunt with Coach, who was hunched over lineup cards in the corridor. My gear bag hung heavy on my shoulder, a comfortable weight I'd miss when retirement kicked in.

The locker room buzzed with pre-practice energy. I claimed my stall and began the ritual of unpacking.

"Morning, sunshine."

I heard Pike's voice before I spotted him entering from the trainers' room. His skin glowed from exertion, suggesting he'd already spent time with his physical therapist. Our eyes met across the crowded space, and something electric passed between us.

"Productive agent call?"

He grinned. "Very. We discussed my exceptional development this season. I might have mentioned my excellent mentor."

"Subtle."

As practice began, Coach divided us into lines for positioning drills, and Pike and I found ourselves paired with TJ for rush sequences against the second defensive unit. In the past, I'd have bristled at being used as a practice punching bag for the younger defensemen, but now I welcomed any excuse to share the ice with Pike.

From the first whistle, we moved like we shared a single nervous system. He anticipated my cuts before I made them, finding seams in the defense that shouldn't have existed. I feathered passes to spaces he hadn't reached yet, knowing instinctively where he'd be three strides later. We connected on plays that would have required months of practice with anyone else.

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