Page 71 of Hard Check

"That's wonderful, honey." She claimed the spot next to Dad. "And that mentor we talked about? What's his name—Carver? How's that working out?"

Heat crept up my neck. "It's been helpful. He's... he knows the game."

"Good. You need someone with experience showing you the ropes." Dad leaned forward, coffee mug balanced on his knee. "Your mother looked him up online after we talked last month. Impressive penalty minutes."

"Dad."

"What? I'm just saying it's good to have someone tough in your corner. Hockey's not a cakewalk."

From the bedroom came the soft thud of a drawer closing, followed by footsteps. My parents' heads turned toward the sound.

Mom glanced back at me. "Someone else here?"

My throat went dry. "Yeah, actually. That's Carver. He's, uh—" I scrambled for an explanation that wouldn't sound rehearsed. "He's coming to dinner with us and got here a little early. If that's okay."

"Of course, it's okay." Mom's face brightened. "How wonderful! We'd love to meet him properly."

Carver appeared in the hallway, now wearing a clean Forge t-shirt that stretched across his chest in a way that definitely didn't help my concentration. He'd tamed his hair and wore his trademark carefully neutral expression as if meeting his mentee's parents was the most natural thing in the world.

"Sorry to interrupt. I was just getting ready to head out."

Mom rose from the couch. "Don't you dare. You're Carver, aren't you? Holt Carver? Matsson's told us so much about you."

He stepped forward, extending his hand with the kind of old-fashioned politeness my parents would appreciate. "Ma'am. You must be Pike's mother. I can see where he gets his persistence."

Mom practically glowed. "Oh, aren't you charming? Linda Pike. And this is my husband, Tom."

My father rose from the couch, accepting Carver's handshake. "Tom Pike. A pleasure to meet you. We've heard you've been looking after our boy."

"He makes it easy." Carver was exceedingly smooth. "Smart player. Good instincts."

"That's what we like to hear." My father's chest puffed out slightly with parental pride. "You know, I played a little hockey myself back in the day. Nothing serious, only a college club team, but I appreciate good fundamentals when I see them."

"Matsson's got excellent fundamentals." My face flushed, and I fought to contain the color. "Strong foundation to build on."

Mom clasped her hands together. "Well, this is just perfect. You simply must join us for dinner. I insist."

I'd already told them he'd join us, but Carver continued down his politeness path.

"That's very kind, Mrs. Pike, but I wouldn't want to intrude on family time."

"Nonsense." It was the tone of voice that ended all family discussions. "You're important to Matsson, which makes you important to us."

If only she knew how important.

Dad nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. Besides, it's Thanksgiving. No one should eat alone on the holiday." He turned toward me. "What do you say, Matsson? Room for one more?"

All three of them looked at me expectantly. Having Carver at dinner with my parents was asking for trouble—too many opportunities for something to slip and for them to read more into our dynamic than they should. Still, I'd already told them he was coming.

"Sure," I heard myself say. "If you want to come, that would be great."

A priceless smile spread across Carver's face.

As Dad and Carver headed toward the door to retrieve their coats, Mom immediately turned to me, lowering her voice to what she probably thought was a whisper. "He's lovely, Matsson. Really. So polite. And those eyes—very kind eyes."

"Mom."

"What? It's nice to see you have good people around you. He clearly cares about your development."

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