Page 57 of Hard Check

After I hung up, I stood in my kitchen clutching my phone, surrounded by the scraps of a life I might be leaving behind. I had a framed photo of last season's team resting on my counter. Carver's scowl was visible even in celebration.

A Lewiston Forge magnet attached my lease renewal form to the refrigerator door. I'd signed it last month when the future seemed more predictable.

As I sipped my coffee, all I could think about was how I would tell Carver that his mentorship had been so successful it might cost us everything we'd built together.

When I reached The Colisée, it felt entirely different from the day before. It had the same concrete corridors and smell of rubber and refrigeration, but the walls seemed to press closer like the building itself knew I was keeping secrets.

The locker room buzzed with its usual pre-practice energy. TJ regaled anyone within earshot about his disastrous attempt to cook dinner for his latest girlfriend, while Monroe methodically taped his stick with the focus of a monk illuminating manuscripts. I claimed my stall and began the ritual of suiting up.

Mercier was observant as always. "You look like someone pissed in your protein shake, Pike."

"Rough morning."

Carver entered as Coach blew his whistle for ice time. Our eyes met across the crowded room—a split second of connection that warmed my entire body. He nodded and fell into his usual preparation routine.

On the ice, something inside me shook loose. Maybe it was the guilt gnawing at my ribs, but I flew through drills with an edge that bordered on violence. Every stride had extra bite, and every pass snapped with unnecessary force. When Coach set up two-on-one rushes, I attacked the defense like they'd hurled personal insults at me.

I couldn't dial it back. I drove to the net with reckless abandon. My stick blade found every seam and every gap between the defender and Mercier in the goal.

Coach's whistle pierced the air. "Pike! Reel it in before you hurt someone."

I coasted to a stop. The rest of the team stared—some impressed, others wary, like they'd watched a nature documentary where the predator got a little too enthusiastic about the hunt.

Carver skated over as we rotated lines, positioning himself close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. The contact lasted maybe two seconds, but it was enough to slow my hammering pulse.

"You okay?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Carver searched my face, looking for everything I was trying to hide. I thought he might demand answers I wasn't ready to give. Instead, he bumped my shin guard with his stick—a tiny gesture of support.

"Whatever it is, we'll figure it out." He skated away before I could say anything.

When practice ended, I returned to the locker room and peeled off my gear with mechanical efficiency. Mercier appeared beside my stall.

"You've been clearer lately." He settled onto the bench. "You're more dialed in."

The observation caught me off guard.Not clearer,I thought.Just... less alone.

"Guess I'm finally catching my stride." I forced a hint of lightness into my voice.

Mercier nodded. "Just don't go getting called up and leave us behind. Some of us are getting used to having competent wingers."

The words landed like a wickedly aimed uppercut. "Not going anywhere," I lied, the taste of deception bitter on my tongue.

"Good." Mercier stood and shouldered his enormous goalie bag. "Some things are worth staying for."

He headed toward the exit and left me with the weight of his words. I couldn't shake the knowledge that I was about to disappoint everyone who mattered most.

Across the room, Carver finished packing his gear. When he glanced my way, I saw something in his expression—not suspicion exactly, but awareness. He could sense the storm gathering beneath my carefully maintained surface.

I needed to tell him. Tonight. I had to speak before the secret ate me alive from the inside out.

Later that evening, snow clung to my eyelashes as I climbed the steps to Carver's building. I knocked twice, our established pattern, and heard his footsteps approaching. When the door swung open, he stood there in worn jeans and a henley that had seen better days. The sight of him—solid, real, mine for however long we lasted—took my breath away.

"You look like hell," he said.

"Charming as always." I stepped inside, shaking snow from my jacket. "Your customer service skills need work."

"Good thing you're not a customer."

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