Page 55 of Hard Check

My voice was rough as I pushed out words I needed to say. "I think I'm falling and don't know how to land."

Pike's arms slowly uncrossed, his expression shifting from hurt to something more complex.

"We're in this together. If we're going to crash, at least we'll crash together."

He didn't say, "Me, too," but he didn't back away either.

After a sigh, he added, "I shouldn't have pulled away on the ice, but when you snapped like that—"

"I know." I reached for him cautiously. I wrapped my fingers around his wrist, tracing the network of veins beneath his skin. "I'm shit at this, Pike. The whole... letting someone in thing."

A gentle smile appeared. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Smart ass." I tugged him closer until our chests almost touched. "We good?"

"We're good. Just... remember, I'm on your team. Literally and figuratively."

"Hard to forget when you keep leaving your protein shakes in my fridge."

He chuckled. "You drink them."

"Only because they expire."

The equipment room door rattled suddenly, and we sprang apart like guilty teenagers. Mercier's voice filtered through: "Anyone in there? Looking for a replacement chin strap."

"It's open," I called back, moving to put appropriate distance between Pike and me.

Pike caught my eye as Mercier entered, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. We hadn't fixed it all, but we'd started the repair process.

As darkness pressed against my bedroom window that night, the night air had a damp chill that promised more snow by morning. Pike had left an hour ago—reluctantly, after I reminded him we'd agreed not to spend too many consecutive nights together to avoid creating patterns teammates might notice.

I lay in bed, staring at ceiling shadows cast by passing cars. My body ached pleasantly from practice—and Pike's hands afterward. Our equipment room conversation had evolved into something more physical once we'd returned to my apartment. Despite the physical relaxation, my mind refused to power down.

The near-miss with TJ had scraped against old wounds, memories I'd buried under years of careful avoidance. I rolled onto my side, punching the pillow into submission. Sleep remained elusive.

A memory rose in the back of my mind—Ryan Kovacs, sixteen years old to my seventeen, sharing a dorm room at senior hockey camp outside Minneapolis. He'd been all gangly limbs and quick laughter, dark hair falling across his eyes. We'd bonded over identical tastes in music and similar backgrounds—hockey dads who pushed too hard and mothers who pretended not to worry every time we hit the ice.

I remembered late-night walks around the campus and breaking curfew to hang out behind the equipment shed. We bumped our shoulders together as we walked, and neither of us pulled away.

One night in particular surfaced with unexpected clarity—our last evening at camp. We'd wrestled over the one remaining Gatorade in our mini-fridge, a tussle that started as horseplay and transformed into something else entirely when Ryan pinned me to the floor. His weight pressed against mine, breath warm against my cheek, and fingers circled around my wrists.

Time froze. His eyes dropped to my mouth, raising a question that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure. For three heartbeats, there was a possibility.

Then, I twisted away, cracking a joke about his weight and turning the intimate moment into competition. "Get your fat ass off me before I suffocate." I spoke in a deliberately harsh voice to mask the tremor beneath it.

The following weekend, back home, I'd taken Jessica Campbell to the lake house her parents owned. She'd been trying to catch my attention for months. I'd slept with her almost spitefully as though proving something to myself. Afterward, lying in her pink-sheeted bed, I'd felt nothing but hollow victory and lingering shame.

Ryan and I exchanged a few texts that summer, but they grew increasingly sporadic. By the time senior year started, we'd drifted into different social orbits. Last I heard, he coached high school hockey somewhere in Wisconsin and was married with two kids.

I stared at my bedroom ceiling, the weight of two decades' worth of deflection and denial pressing against my chest. "I never gave myself a chance to know," I whispered to the empty room.

It wasn't self-loathing that accompanied the realization—only the weight of having buried something too deep to recognize until Pike dug it up with his earnest eyes and unguarded smile.

The fierce protectiveness I felt toward him wasn't only about shielding him from the potential fallout of our relationship. It was about protecting myself, too.

My phone screen lit up as a text arrived.

Pike:Found your missing sock under my car seat. Holding it hostage until you admit protein shakes are actually good.

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