Page 62 of Hard Check

I forced myself to look at TJ instead of checking Pike's table again. "Kid worked for it. He deserves the shot."

"Sure he does. That doesn't mean you have to be thrilled about losing your best winger to the big leagues."

If only that's all I was losing.

That thought was the kind I said I would avoid. Pike's invitation had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his own talent and dedication.

So why did it feel like someone was slowly pulling my chest cavity open with rusty pliers?

"I'm already thinking about line combinations for next season. It's gonna be a different team." That last part wasn't a lie, but I knew I wouldn't be around to see the new line combinations.

TJ signaled for another pitcher. "Different doesn't have to mean worse. Besides, who knows? Maybe the kid will flame out and come crawling back to us lowly minor leaguers."

The words were meant as a joke, but I wanted to defend Pike and point out that he wouldn't flame out because he was too smart and fundamentally good at hockey to wash out of a rookie camp. Saying any of that would reveal more than I wanted to show.

I settled for a noncommittal grunt and took another sip of terrible beer.

"You okay?" TJ studied my face. "You look like you just bit into something rotten."

"Fine." I pushed back from the table. "Just need some fresh air."

"Carver—"

"Five minutes."

I reached the parking lot before my carefully maintained composure started to crack. The November air bit at my face and hands, sharp enough to cut through the fog of alcohol and regret that had been building all evening. Snow was starting to fall in fat, lazy flakes that melted the instant they hit the asphalt.

I fished my phone out of my pocket more for something to do with my hands than because I expected any messages. The screen was blank except for the time—9:47 PM—and a weather alert warning of snow mixed with freezing rain overnight.

This is temporary,I'd told Pike just days ago.We were always temporary.

The words had been meant as protection, reminding us that whatever we'd built had an expiration date. I'd thought I was being realistic, practical, and maybe even kind by acknowledging the inevitable before it blindsided us.

Now, it felt like the stupidest thing I'd ever said.

Standing in a parking lot, watching snow fall while Pike celebrated his future inside, I realized that temporary didn't make it hurt less. If anything, knowing our time was limited made every moment of distance feel like a countdown to something I wasn't ready to lose.

I stayed outside until my fingers went numb, and my breath formed clouds thick enough to obscure my vision. When I finally headed back inside, Pike's table was half-empty. The celebration was winding down.

Our gazes met for the first time all evening. For a heartbeat, neither of us looked away. Something passed between us—recognition, regret, maybe even longing—before Pike turned back to a story from Monroe, and I retreated to my corner booth.

The rest of the evening blurred together in a haze of forced conversation and foul-tasting beer. By the time the last call came around, half the team had already drifted away to cars or girlfriends.

I was gathering my coat when someone brushed against my shoulder. It was Pike, finally close enough to touch, leaning in like he was going to say something.

He didn't. He straightened and walked past me toward the exit, leaving only the faint scent of that citrusy shampoo.

The silence in my apartment was like a living thing pressing against my eardrums. I'd left the Icehouse without saying goodbye to anyone, slipping out through the back exit like a coward.

Now I sat on my couch in the half-darkness, with the only light coming from the television. I'd tuned it to some silly sitcom rerun, but I couldn't summon enough interest to care about the plot.

My beer sat untouched on the coffee table. The apartment felt smaller than usual as if the walls had crept inward while I wasn't paying attention.

He's leaving.

The thought had circled my brain for hours, wearing a groove like skate blades on fresh ice. Pike was leaving—not tomorrow, not next week, but eventually, inevitably, as surely as winter followed fall in Maine.

The rookie camp was just the first domino in a sequence that would end with him in a different league, city, and life that had no space for a washed-up minor-league veteran.

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