Page 76 of Hard Check

Pike lay crumpled against the boards, motionless.

I was off the bench before conscious thought kicked in, one skate already on the ice when Coach's voice cut through the chaos.

"CARVER!"

I froze, balanced between the bench and the ice, every muscle in my body screaming to move. I wanted to get to Pike and make Kozlov pay for what he'd done.

On the ice, Pike stirred. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees, helmet twisted but still conscious. Relief flooded through my system.

Our eyes met. He was pale and shaken but alert as the trainers crowded around him.

What I saw was understanding in his expression. He knew I wanted to tear Kozlov's head off.

And he trusted me not to.

I forced myself to step back and sit on the bench; hands clenched so tight around my stick that the tape started to tear under my gloves. The rage was still there, pulsing like a second heartbeat, but self-control rose to meet it, fueled by the knowledge that Pike needed me to be better than my impulses.

The referee's arm shot up, whistle shrieking through the arena. Kozlov raised his hands in mock innocence, skating backward toward his bench.

"Charging, number twenty-seven, Augusta," the ref announced over the PA. "Five-minute major."

Kozlov skated to the penalty box like he was taking a victory lap, tapping his stick against the glass where Augusta fans pressed their faces. The bastard enjoyed every second.

Pike accepted help from our trainers, skating slowly toward the bench with one hand pressed to his ribs. When he collapsed onto the seat beside me, I heard a sharp intake of breath that told me he was hurting more than he'd let on.

I whispered, "You good?"

"Been better." He pulled off his helmet, revealing a cut above his left eyebrow that would need attention. "But yeah. I'm good."

Coach leaned over from behind us. "Pike, you're done for the period. Get looked at."

"Coach, I can—"

"No arguments. Carver, you're up next shift."

As Pike stood to follow the trainer down the tunnel, he paused beside me. He briefly gripped my shoulder.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying."

At the end of the second period, I sat in my stall in the locker room, methodically retaping my stick while conversations swirled around me. The usual post-period analysis mixed with something sharper and more personal.

"Did you see Carver when Pike went down?" Monroe's voice carried from across the room. "Thought he was gonna launch himself over the boards like a fucking missile."

TJ grinned. "Would've paid money to see that. Kozlov would've needed a stretcher."

"And Carver would've needed a lawyer." Mercier's goalie pragmatism came through loud and clear. "Smart play, staying put."

I kept my head down. The kind of praise lobbed in my direction was still relatively unfamiliar. For most of my career, restraint hadn't been my strong suit. I was the guy who collected penalties like souvenirs.

"Serious growth there." Lambert, a veteran defenseman in his fifth season with the team, sat beside me. "Takes balls to hold back when someone lights up your linemate like that."

Before I could respond, our head trainer pushed through the crowd with Pike in tow. The kid's face was flushed, and a butterfly bandage covered the cut above his eyebrow, but he also flashed a smile like he'd just scored a hat trick.

"Cleared for the third," he announced. A chorus of relieved cheers and stick taps rang through the locker room.

"How's the ribs?" I asked.

"Sore as hell, but nothing's broken." He pulled a fresh jersey over his head, wincing slightly as the fabric stretched across his torso. "Doc says I'm lucky Kozlov caught me square. If I'd been turning, it could've been a lot worse."

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