Page 64 of Hard Check

I stared at the empty space where he'd been.

Coach had us running two-on-one drills, the kind Carver and I could execute blindfolded on a good day. Now, we moved like strangers forced to dance to music neither of us could hear.

He fed me a pass at the blue line—too hard, too high. It sailed over my stick and into the corner boards with a hollow clang. I retrieved it without looking at him.

"Communication!" Coach barked from the bench. "I want to hear voices out there!"

The following sequence was worse. Carver held the puck longer than I expected. When he finally released it, I'd already committed to a different path. The puck skittered harmlessly to Mercier, who gloved it with an expression that combined confusion and concern.

"What the hell was that?" TJ skated over during the brief whistle, gesturing between us. "You two having a lovers' quarrel or something?"

The blood drained from my face. TJ meant it as a joke—his usual needling—but the words were harsh. I caught Carver's reaction in my peripheral vision: a barely perceptible flinch, followed by the careful reconstruction of his public mask.

I rattled off nothing words. "Just off our timing. Happens to everyone."

TJ wasn't buying it. Neither was Mercier, who'd been watching us with those sharp goalie eyes that missed nothing. Even Monroe kept glancing our way; his brow furrowed with the particular concern of someone witnessing a car accident in slow motion.

Coach reset the drill and paired us with Lambert for a three-man rush. Simple. Basic. The kind of play we'd converted in our sleep.

Carver carried the puck up the left wing, Lambert filling the middle lane. I positioned myself on the right, timing my acceleration to create the perfect triangle. The defense bit on Carver's fake, opening a lane that should have been automatic.

He passed to Lambert instead.

The puck sailed clean. Lambert buried it, and Mercier fished it from his net with theatrical frustration, but I knew—and Carver knew I knew—that the pass should have been mine. He'd chosen the safe option that avoided a connection between us.

When we regrouped for the next rush, I cut inside earlier than planned, forcing Carver to adjust his approach. He tried to thread a pass through traffic. It deflected off a defender's skate and trickled weakly toward the corner.

"Pike!" Carver's voice cracked like a whip across the ice. "What the fuck was that?"

I spun to face him, years of practiced restraint evaporating instantly. "What was what? Me trying to create space while you're playing like we've never met?"

"You jumped the play—"

"I jumped nothing! You're the one passing like I've got the plague!"

Suddenly, the rink was silent except for the mechanical hum of refrigeration units. Twenty pairs of eyes fixed on us, watching our professional facades crumble in real time.

TJ's mouth hung open. Mercier was still. Even the assistant coaches stopped their clipboard scribbling.

Coach's whistle pierced the air with three sharp blasts. "Carver! Pike! Off the ice. Now."

I followed Carver toward the bench, each stride feeling like a march toward execution. The other players gave us a wide berth. No one wanted to witness whatever was about to happen in Coach's office.

The office was always small. Today, it felt tiny as he barked at us in a gravelly voice. "I don't know what's happening with you two, but it ends now. You're off the line together until you figure it out."

I nodded, jaw clenched so tight my molars ached. Carver sat statue-still beside me, close enough that I could smell his deodorant, but he might as well have been on another planet. When Coach dismissed us, we filed out silently, careful not to brush shoulders in the narrow doorway.

Neither of us spoke. What was there to say? We'd torched our professional relationship in full view of the team, confirming every worst-case scenario we'd whispered about in dark moments.

My drive home passed in a blur of gray November streets and traffic lights that lingered too long on red. The apartment building sat like a monument to loneliness.

Inside, I dropped my gear bag by the door and shuffled to the couch, still wearing my practice clothes. The fabric clung to my skin, damp with sweat.

My phone sat on the coffee table; the screen was dark and accusatory. No messages. No missed calls. No sign that Carver was wrestling with the same demons as me.

I picked up the device, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Started typing:

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