Page 72 of Hard Check

Carver reappeared wearing the dark wool coat that made his shoulders look even broader. "Ready when you are."

We filed out of my apartment in a small parade—Mom leading the way while peppering Carver with questions about his playing career. Dad brought up the rear. I walked between them, noticing every glance and every gesture that might give us away.

The November air nipped at our faces as we emerged onto the sidewalk. Dad insisted on driving despite Mom's protests about his parallel parking abilities.

"Shotgun," she announced, already heading for the passenger door. "You boys can chat hockey in the back."

I slid into the backseat next to Carver. His thigh pressed against mine as Dad adjusted the rearview mirror. I concentrated on keeping my breathing steady.

Dad pulled away from the curb. "So, Holt, what's your take on Matsson's development this season? We don't get to see many games, unfortunately."

"He's exceeded every expectation." Carver didn't hesitate with his praise. "His hockey IQ has improved dramatically. The way he reads defensive schemes now compared to the beginning of the season is night and day."

Mom turned in her seat to beam at us. "That's what we want to hear. We always knew he had the talent, but talent only takes you so far, doesn't it?"

Carver agreed. "Talent without work ethic is only potential. "But Pike—Matsson—he's got both.

Mom leaned to the left to examine her face in the rearview mirror. "You should come to visit us sometime. In Minnesota. We'd love to show you around. Wouldn't we, Tom?"

"Absolutely. Got some great hockey history there. Could show you where Matsson learned to skate."

I nearly choked. The idea of Carver meeting my extended family, seeing my childhood bedroom, and sitting at my parent's kitchen table while my mother fed him homemade cookies was simultaneously terrifying and oddly appealing.

Carver was diplomatic. "That's very kind of you. I'd like that."

"Here we are," Dad announced, cutting the engine. "The Riverside Inn. Best turkey dinner in Lewiston, according to the internet."

I had no idea how I was going to survive the next two hours.

The Riverside Inn had transformed itself for the holiday, with autumn leaves scattered across white tablecloths and small pumpkins serving as centerpieces.

"This is lovely," Mom announced, spreading her napkin across her lap as we were seated. "So much nicer than trying to cook for only the three of us."

"Four." Dad smiled at Carver. "Glad you could join us, Holt. Makes it feel more like a proper celebration."

Mom turned her full attention to Carver, "Tell us about yourself. Are you from a hockey family?"

His fingers drummed lightly against the table. "Not really. My dad worked in construction, and my mom was a nurse. I was the only one who played seriously."

"How did you end up in professional hockey then?" Dad leaned forward. "That's quite a jump from a non-hockey household."

"Scholarship to Providence College. Played four years there and did well enough to get some attention from scouts. The path kind of chose itself after that."

"And you've been with the Forge for...?"

"Six seasons now. Longest I've stayed anywhere."

Mom smiled warmly. "It must feel like home by now."

"Yeah," Carver glanced at me. "It does."

We ordered turkey dinners all around because anything else would have felt like sacrilege. Mom immediately resumed her gentle interrogation.

"Do you have family nearby? Parents, siblings?"

Carver's expression turned more serious. "My mom's still in Massachusetts. Dad passed away a few years ago. I had a brother, but..." He exhaled slowly. "Car accident last year."

Mom's hand immediately went to her chest. "Oh, Holt. I'm so sorry."

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