Page 7 of Hard Check

"He's got a good eye for mechanics."

Mercier glanced across the room where Carver was now pulling a faded Forge t-shirt over his head. "Carver's got more hockey sense than he lets on; just buries it under that running mouth."

TJ approached from the showers, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still dripping. "Are we talking about the Carver Redemption Tour? I've got money on him making you cry by Friday, Pike."

I raked my fingers through my hair. "Your confidence is touching."

TJ grinned. "Seriously though, you did look better out there today. Whatever the old man's teaching, it's working."

"He's thirty, not sixty."

"Hockey years are like dog years." TJ pulled on a worn Forge t-shirt with the sleeves cut off to showcase the elaborate tribal tattoo covering his right shoulder—the product of his "poor decisions and good tequila" during his first professional season. "By that math, Carver's about 210."

Mercier shook his head. "You understand that puts you at around 175, yes?"

"But I wear it better," TJ shot back without missing a beat.

"The delusions of youth." Mercier sighed, turning toward me.

He patted my shoulder. I nodded and watched them leave. They headed for the exit together, their familiar banter continuing down the hallway. Carver moved toward the shower area, a towel draped over one shoulder.

The flutter returned, stronger this time. I turned away, quickly gathering my things.

As I headed for the exit, a quiet uncertainty took root. Admiration didn't usually feel like this—it didn't usually create an unexplained tension. I told myself it was only professional interest, the natural respect for a veteran player with hard-earned knowledge.

Whatever it was, I didn't have a name for it yet. And maybe that was for the best.

Chapter three

Carver

IarrivedattheColiséethree hours before puck drop, though I'd never admit to anyone I was that eager for opening day. The security guard hardly glanced up as I passed.

"Bit early, Carver."

"Your observation skills are why they pay you the big bucks, Phil."

He snorted, returning to his crossword puzzle. "Mercier's already here. Meditating or some shit."

"Of course, he is. Probably communing with his glove hand."

I pushed through the double doors into the locker room. I traced my fingers along the row of dented stall nameplates—mine had a jagged scratch across the middle, courtesy of a stick-throwing tantrum after our playoff elimination last year. Coach had threatened to make me pay for a new one. I'd told him to bill me and add it to my tab of fucks not given.

The room smelled exactly like it always did—liniment, old sweat, and rubber. I spotted Mercier in the corner, eyes closed, headphones in place. His lips moved in silent counts—visualizing saves, no doubt. I'd once replaced his pre-game playlist with a loop of "Baby Shark." He didn't speak to me for two weeks.

"Morning, Zen master," I called. "The spirits say we're winning by three today."

He didn't open his eyes. "The spirits say you're still an asshole."

The door swung open again, and Pike entered. He nodded at me, then started what looked like a pre-established routine: five steps to the whiteboard, pivot, seven steps back to his stall, repeat.

"Christ, are you measuring the room for curtains? Sit down before you wear a trench in the floor."

I startled him. "What? Oh. My… pre-game routine."

"Pacing like a nervous father isn't a routine. It's a cry for help."

Mercier opened one eye. "Leave the kid alone, Carver."

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