Page 54 of Hard Check

During a water break, we found ourselves on the bench, shoulders almost touching as we caught our breath.

Pike's eyes were bright. "That backhand sauce through Lambert's legs? Filthy."

"Your finish wasn't half bad. They didn't even see you coming off the half-wall."

"That's because you drew both defenders. Perfect decoy."

Coach's whistle cut through our exchange, summoning us back to center ice for scrimmage assignments. As we skated toward the group, TJ sidled up between us; his voice pitched for our ears only.

"Get a room, you two. The rest of us are getting jealous of whatever telepathic shit you've got going on."

Everything inside me went cold. TJ's smirk carried no malice, only his usual needling humor, but panic flared hot in my chest.

"You want to run your mouth or play hockey?" I snapped.

TJ's eyebrows shot up. "Easy, old man. Only saying you guys are clicking."

But the damage was done. Pike's expression dimmed. He drifted away from me, putting three teammates between us as Coach outlined the scrimmage parameters.

When we resumed play, the magic was gone. Pike's next pass came hard and slightly off-target, zipping past where I should have been if I'd read him correctly. The puck skittered into the corner, and Coach's whistle blasted across the ice.

"Carver! Pike! Did you two lose your connection in the water break? Get it together!"

Pike nodded stiffly. I wanted to take the words back and explain that my reaction wasn't aimed at him—it was the fear of being seen, really seen, by people who'd known me only as the guy with the sharp tongue and the penalty minutes. But the ice was neither the time nor place to discuss it.

After practice, steam billowed from the showers, cloaking the locker room in a humid fog. I lingered at my stall, postponing my shower as I followed Pike through peripheral vision.

He peeled off his practice jersey and under-armor with methodical precision; his back deliberately turned toward me. Around us, teammates traded the usual post-practice banter—complaints about Coach's conditioning drills, debates about lunch options, and plans for evening activities.

I waited until the locker room had mostly emptied, most guys having showered and departed for afternoon commitments. Pike returned from his shower with a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets on his shoulders. He'd taken longer than usual, probably hoping I'd be gone by the time he emerged.

I pitched my voice low. "Need to talk to you."

"Nothing to talk about."

"Five minutes. Equipment room."

His jaw tightened, but he nodded before pulling the shirt over his head.

The equipment room smelled of leather conditioner and metal shavings from the skate sharpener. I positioned myself near the grinding bench. When the door finally opened, Pike slipped inside, closing it carefully behind him.

He wore street clothes—jeans and a Minnesota Gophers sweatshirt that had seen better days. He leaned against a shelving unit of spare visors and kept his distance.

"I'm sorry. I just—TJ hit a nerve."

"You think I don't get that?" Pike's voice was tight. "But don't take it out on me. We agreed to the secrecy, Carver. I'm not the one who made it an issue."

"I know." I dragged a hand across my face, feeling the stubble rasp against my palm. "I panicked."

"And I got to be the punching bag."

That stung, mostly because he was right.

"It won't happen again."

Pike crossed his arms. "Until the next time someone comments. Or gives us a look. Or notices that we're actually—" he gestured vaguely between us, "—whatever this is."

My defensive part wanted to fire back and remind him how much we both had to lose if the wrong people found out. The look on his face—wounded pride—deflated my anger.

---