Page 75 of Hard Check

Through the gap between bodies, I glimpsed Pike warming up. He moved with that fluid precision that made everything look effortless. When he fired a shot that rang off the crossbar with a metallic clang, a cluster of Augusta fans pressed against the glass applauded.

The kid had that effect on people. Made them believers.

I experienced a swell of pride as I watched him move around the rink. He'd absorbed everything I'd taught him about reading defensive gaps, and he turned awkward early drills into poetry on ice. Still, underneath that pride lurked something uglier.

Fear.

Augusta had a reputation. They loaded their roster with players who'd never sniff the NHL but could deliver hits that ended careers. Guys like Tommy Kozlov, their left winger, collected concussions like trading cards and wore each suspension like a badge of honor.

Pike glided past our bench during his next lap. He caught my eye through the glass and flashed that sunshine smile. I set my jaw.

Don't get hurt, kid. Not tonight. Not ever.

I pushed off the wall and began pacing, my skate guards clicking against the concrete in an agitated rhythm. Coach MacPherson appeared at my elbow, clipboard tucked under one arm. "Are you planning to wear a trench in the floor?"

"Just getting loose." I flexed my fingers inside my gloves, trying to work out the tension that had settled there like ice.

"Uh-huh. Pike looks good out there. Sharp. Confident."

"Yeah." My voice was rough and edgy from the fear. "He's ready."

"Question is, are you?"

Before I could respond, the horn sounded—end of warmup. My teammates began filtering back through the tunnel, faces flushed from exertion and their conversation buzzing with pre-game energy. Pike was among the last to return, helmet tucked under his arm.

"How's the ice?" I asked as he passed.

"Fast. Clean." He paused, studying my face. "You okay? You look like you're about to spontaneously combust."

"I'm fine."

"You're not getting it past me." He spoke quietly, meant only for me. "What's got you wound up?"

I glanced around the tunnel, making sure we weren't overheard. "Augusta plays dirty. Watch your back out there."

"Always do."

"No, Pike. I mean it." I stepped closer. "These guys will try to hurt you. They see talent and want to break it."

"I can handle myself."

"I know you can. That doesn't mean I won't worry."

"Then I guess I better not give you anything to worry about."

The second period unfolded like a chess match played at breakneck speed. Augusta came out swinging after intermission; their forecheck was more aggressive, and their hits landed with the kind of force that rattled teeth. I'd already taken two solid checks that left my shoulder singing, but Pike was untouchable—dancing between defenders like smoke and making plays that had the scattered Lewiston fans in the stands jumping to their feet.

Thirteen minutes in, he picked up a loose puck at our blue line. It caught the Augusta defense in transition, gaps opening like fault lines in their coverage.

Pike accelerated.

What followed next was a slow-motion train wreck that I could not stop. Pike committed to the outside lane, head up, stick protecting the puck with casual confidence.

Tommy Kozlov materialized from his blind side like a heat-seeking missile.

The hit arrived with the sound of thunder—shoulder to chest, perfectly timed to catch Pike mid-stride with his head down. The impact lifted him off his skates and sent him crashing into the boards with a sickening thud that echoed through the arena.

Augusta fans roared their approval while our scattered fans screamed for a penalty. All I heard was silence—the terrible, empty quiet that follows when someone you care about goes down hard.

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