Page 6 of Hard Check

"Good. That's a start." He studied me for a moment. "You know, most rookies with your skills wouldn't waste time studying a grinder like me."

"You're not just a grinder." The words tumbled out, bypassing any filters. "You create opportunities nobody else sees. That corner play against Hartford last season? When you drew three defenders and still managed to feed Leo for the game-winner? That wasn't only physical. That showed smarts."

"One good play doesn't make me Gretzky."

I continued. "It's not only one play. It's how you read defensive structures, how you—"

"Enough." He cut me off. "Save the analysis for someone who needs the ego boost."

"Fine. I'll find someone else to compliment. Maybe Mercier needs to hear about his glove-side reflexes."

"Christ," Carver muttered. "Don't. His helmet already barely fits his head."

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it, and Carver's mouth twitched—almost a smile.

The team practice that followed our early session had a different energy. It was the controlled chaos of twenty players sharing the same space, with Coach barking instructions and his whistle punctuating drills. I settled into the rhythm easily, feeling renewed confidence from my one-on-one time with Carver.

Coach pulled me to the side. "Whatever Carver showed you, keep doing it."

Throughout practice, Carver maintained his typical on-ice persona—vocal, demanding, and occasionally profane. He called out lazy backchecks and half-hearted forechecks with equal vigor, holding everyone to the standard he set with his effort.

By the time Coach blew the final whistle, my legs burned pleasantly, and my knee ached but held steady. The session had been my best since returning from injury—not quite pre-accident form, but closer than I'd been for weeks.

"Good work with Pike," Coach said to Carver as we headed to the locker room. I slowed, within earshot.

"Only doing what you asked, Coach."

"No, you're doing more than I asked. The question is why." Something knowing in Coach's tone made me hurry past, suddenly feeling like I'd intruded on something private.

I lingered in the locker room longer than usual, taking time with my cool-down stretches. My normal routine was efficient—practice, shower, protein shake, and out the door. Today, something anchored me in the space, reluctant to break the morning's mood.

Across the room, Carver had already peeled off most of his gear. Unlike some of the younger guys who treated equipment like disposable accessories, Carver handled his gear with practiced care—preserving what he could save, discarding only what was truly spent.

Without consciously intending to, I found my gaze drawn to him. Stripped of pads and practice jersey, his upper body told the story of a hockey career. A network of scars mapped encounters with sticks, pucks, and boards—some had faded to white lines, while others still carried the angry pink of newer damage. A particularly vivid scar curved along his left shoulder blade and disappeared down his back.

He glanced up suddenly, catching me watching. Something flickered in his eyes. For a heartbeat, neither of us looked away.

My pulse quickened unexpectedly. Heat crawled up my neck, and I dropped my gaze, suddenly fascinated by the laces of my shoes.

What was that?

I'd watched countless teammates before—studying techniques and observing routines. This was different. My stomach twisted with an unfamiliar tension.

The unfamiliar awareness wasn't entirely new. I remembered a moment last February—post-game celebrations after Carver's overtime winner against Providence. Amid the locker room chaos was Carver, quietly rewrapping tape around a damaged knuckle while others celebrated around him.

His isolation within the collective joy struck me. The strange pull I'd felt toward him then had been easier to categorize as simple respect.

It's just admiration, I told myself firmly. Professional admiration. It was the natural reaction to someone whose career you've followed.

"Earth to Pike." Mercier's voice cut through my thoughts. The goalie stood nearby, the equipment bag slung over his shoulder. "You planning to grow roots in that stall?"

I blinked, realizing most of the team had already filtered out. "Finishing up."

"Must have been some session with Carver this morning. You looked different out there. More balanced."

"He showed me a few new tricks."

"Huh." Mercier tilted his head slightly. "Wouldn't have pegged him for the teaching type."

---