Page 66 of Hard Check

Chapter seventeen

Carver

Thewindscreamedaroundmy building like a banshee with unfinished business, rattling windows and sending debris skittering across the parking lot below. I'd given up on sleep hours ago, settling instead for pacing between my kitchen and living room while nursing a mug of chamomile tea, that weak garbage that was supposed to help me nod off.

My shoulder throbbed where I'd collided with Monroe during the disastrous practice session, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the mental loop playing on repeat. It was Pike's face when I'd brushed past him in the locker room.

His voice had cracked when he'd asked if this was just exploration. Then, he maintained careful distance on the ice like I'd become radioactive.

I'd fucked everything up. Spectacularly. Publicly. In front of the entire team.

A knock on my door cut through the storm's symphony like a gunshot. Sharp, urgent, desperate. I froze mid-pace. Who the hell would be out in this weather at—I glanced at the microwave clock—two-seventeen in the morning?

I crossed to the door and peered through the peephole, my heart skipping a beat. Pike stood there, soaked through to the bone, with hair plastered to his skull in ribbons.

Water dripped from his jacket sleeves, forming puddles in the hallway. His eyes were wild and raw like he'd been running from ghosts.

I yanked the door open. "Jesus Christ, Pike. You're drowning out there."

He didn't speak at first. He only stood there shivering, staring at me.

He lobbed a verbal bomb into my apartment. "Was I a mistake—or were you just scared?"

I studied his face until something inside me snapped. I reached out, fingers closing around his jacket sleeve, and pulled him across the threshold.

He stumbled slightly, and we were standing close in the narrow entryway. Steam rose from his soaked jacket like morning fog as the icy night air clung to his skin.

"You're gonna get hypothermia."

"I'm fine." His teeth chattered.

"You're not fine. You're—" I stopped, interrupted by how he looked at me. He was like a drowning man who saw me as the only solid thing in the world.

"I couldn't let you believe I was a mistake. I couldn't walk away thinking that's what you believe."

My throat constricted. "Pike..."

"I tried." He took a shaky breath, shoulders trembling. "I sat in my apartment for hours telling myself I could do it. That I could pretend none of this mattered, but I can't. Fuck, Carver, I can't pretend you don't matter."

I'd convinced myself that I was protecting his future from the wreckage of my limitations. Looking at him, soaked and shivering, I realized I'd been protecting nothing but my own cowardice.

"You think I wanted to say that?" The confession tore from my throat like broken glass. "You think it didn't kill me to watch you walk away?"

"Then why—"

"Because I'm terrified." It was a weakness I hated to admit. "I'm terrified that I'll be the thing that holds you back. That in five years, when you're playing in the show and living the life you've earned, you'll look back and realize I was just... dead weight."

Pike stepped closer. "You're not dead weight. You're—"

His hands came up to frame my face, cold fingers pressing against my jaw. "You're everything," he whispered.

Then, he kissed me.

His lips were cold, but they warmed quickly in the kiss. He backed me into the wall hard enough to rattle the coat hooks. One gave way, and a Forge ball cap bounced off my shoulder.

Pike laughed. I stared at him, dazed, trying to memorize how he looked mid-laugh with water still dripping off his chin.

I kissed him again, slow and sensual, dragging my tongue across his bottom lip to feel him shiver. He groaned—low and rough—and it vibrated in my spine.

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