Page 70 of Hard Check

"Shit." The bed creaked as he sat up. "Want me to disappear for a while?"

The offer was practical and considerate. "No. You don't have to. They're taking me to dinner, but..." I paused, stirring my coffee with unnecessary force. "I told them I might bring a friend. A hockey buddy."

Carver appeared in the doorway wearing yesterday's jeans and nothing else, hair sticking out at odd angles. He accepted the coffee mug I offered, wrapping both hands around it.

"A hockey buddy." He tried to hide his amusement. "Is that what we're calling it this week?"

"It's what they think you are."

He was quiet for a moment. "And what do you think I am?"

The question caught me off guard. I knew what he was—what we were—but I didn't have the right words to say it out loud.

"I think you're someone I don't want to hide anymore."

My phone buzzed.

Mom:Pulling up now. Dad found a spot right out front—Thanksgiving miracle!

"They're here. I know it's early, but Dad likes to beat the crowds."

I set down my mug, suddenly painfully aware of everything—the rumpled state of my hair, the fact that Carver was half-dressed in my kitchen, and how my apartment probably smelled like the two of us.

Carver read my panic. "I should grab a shirt and make myself presentable for the parents."

Three sharp buzzes from downstairs made my stomach lurch. I grabbed the intercom, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice. "Come on up. Third floor."

As footsteps echoed in the stairwell, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. I looked exactly like what I was—a guy who'd spent the night with someone he cared about and was now terrified his parents would somehow figure it out.

The knock on my door was my mother's signature—two quick raps followed by a longer one. I opened it to find her beaming at me, arms already reaching for a hug.

"There's my boy." She squeezed me tight enough to crack ribs, her familiar perfume—something floral and expensive—enveloping me. "You look thin. Are you eating?"

"I'm eating, Mom."

My father hung back, grinning. He was wearing his "good" polo shirt and khakis. He'd dressed up for me. When Mom finally released me, he stepped forward for one of his careful half-hugs—the kind that acknowledged affection without lingering too long on emotion.

When Mom reached for me again, he chastised her. "Let the kid breathe, Linda."

"It's been two months," she protested. "Two months since we've seen him in person."

She examined the apartment, straightening magazines and adjusting throw pillows along the way. My father followed, carrying two paper bags that clinked softly as he set them on my counter.

"Brought cranberry sauce. It's the good stuff your mother makes, not the canned garbage."

"Dad, we're going to a restaurant."

"For after." He began unpacking the bags with methodical precision. "She also insisted on bringing pie, even when I pointed out that restaurants typically provide dessert."

Mom was busy examining the framed team photo on my bookshelf. "Apple and pumpkin. I couldn't decide, so I made both. This is from last season, isn't it? You look so young."

"That was eight months ago."

"Yes. Boys grow so fast at your age."

Dad settled onto my couch with the ease of someone who belonged there. "How's the season going? Team keeping you busy?"

"It's good. We're second in the division." I perched on the edge of the coffee table, maintaining careful distance. Too close, and Mom would start fussing; too far, and she'd worry I was pulling away.

---