Page 68 of Hard Check

"Don't make me kick your ass after sex, Carver."

I barked out a laugh and kissed the top of his head.

We lay there listening to the rain. He started to drift. I didn't.

I stared at the ceiling and whispered so quietly that I wasn't sure I meant for him to hear: "We've got nine months. I'll figure something out."

Pike's fingers found mine under the blanket. He didn't speak, just squeezed—once, firm and sure.

That was enough.

When Pike's breathing finally evened out against my chest, and his grip on my shoulders relaxed into something softer, I pressed my lips to the crown of his head and whispered the truth I'd been too afraid to speak.

"You're not a mistake. You're the best thing that's happened to me in years."

He lifted his head to look at me, eyes bright in the darkness. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Pike slept like the dead, curled against my side with one arm flung across my chest, his breathing deep and even. The storm had quieted, the freezing rain turning to light snow, but I still didn't fall asleep.

I lay still, aware of every point where our bodies connected—his knee pressed against my thigh and fingers splayed across my ribs. His face had gone slack in sleep, and the tension around his eyes had finally released.

The digital clock on my nightstand read 4:17 AM. I'd need to be at the rink for morning skate in three hours. Pike would probably sleep until noon if I let him, exhausted from whatever emotional marathon had driven him through the storm to my door.

I thought about the rookie camp invitation and the timeline that felt both infinite and impossibly short. Nine months until July. Nine months to figure out what the hell we were doing and whether whatever burned between us could survive the pressure of divided loyalties and competing dreams.

The math was brutal in its simplicity: Pike's future lay somewhere else, somewhere bigger than Lewiston and the Forge and everything that had defined my adult life. I'd known that from the beginning, and I had told myself I could handle it when the time came to let go.

Looking at him now—face soft with sleep and body trusted completely to my protection—I realized I'd been lying to myself.

I didn't want to let go. I didn't want to be noble, selfless, or any other virtues that required sacrificing what I'd found with him. I wanted to be selfish and wanted to fight for every day and week and month until someone forced me to choose between his happiness and my own.

"You've got nine months until rookie camp," I whispered to the darkness. "We'll figure it out."

Pike's breathing remained steady, undisturbed by my quiet vow. I closed my eyes and finally allowed myself to drift off to sleep.

The Colisée felt three times as big when it was empty at six-thirty in the morning. Every tiny sound echoed in the cavernous space. I'd left Pike sleeping in my bed, a gentle smile on his face.

Phil nodded from behind his security desk, barely looking up from his crossword. "Early bird today, Carver."

"Couldn't sleep." It was the truth, though not for the reasons he'd assume.

I claimed my stall and began the familiar ritual of gearing up. Left skate first, laces pulled tight but not cutting circulation. Shin guards positioned just so.

"Thought I might find you here."

I looked up to see Coach MacPherson, arms crossed over his chest. He stood in the doorway clutching a steaming travel mug.

"Couldn't stay away."

He approached slowly, settling onto the bench across from me, his knees lightly creaking. The intensity in his gaze told me he was about to say something that mattered.

"We need to talk about what comes next."

"If this is about yesterday's practice—"

"It's not." He waved a dismissive hand. "Pike's good for you. You're good for him. Whatever's happening between you two, talk it out and move forward."

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