Page 78 of Hard Check

The locker room was silent. Everyone paused to listen.

"You think fighting Kozlov would've helped me? Would've made my ribs feel better or gotten me back on the ice faster?" Pike's gaze pinned Sanders to the wall. "Or would it have put our best penalty killer in the box for five minutes while Augusta scored twice on the power play?"

Sanders opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. No sound emerged.

"That's what I thought." Pike shouldered his bag. "Carver's got more hockey sense in his pinky finger than you've got in your entire body. Show some fucking respect."

Everyone stared at Pike, stunned by the ferocity of his defense. He was Mr. Sunshine 99.5% of the time, but he'd stepped between me and criticism like a bodyguard protecting his principal.

In six seasons with the Forge, I'd fought my own battles, deflected my own criticism, and built my own reputation through force and sarcasm. Nobody had ever defended me like that. Nobody had ever thought I was worth protecting.

TJ was the first to break the silence, letting out a low whistle. "Well, damn. Sunshine's got claws."

Looking around, I realized our secret wasn't a secret anymore. Not entirely. Our teammates understood now, even if they couldn't cite a specific definition. Pike and I were something more than mentor and student.

And the world didn't end.

The locker room had mostly emptied by the time I finished my post-game routine. A few stragglers remained—Mercier organized his goalie gear with obsessive precision.

I sat on the bench in front of my stall, working at the knots in my skate laces with fingers that felt clumsy and thick. The adrenaline from the game was finally wearing off, leaving behind a familiar ache in my shoulders and the more profound exhaustion from playing with every nerve on high alert.

Pike appeared at the edge of my vision, moving quietly across the concrete floor. He'd changed into dark jeans and a faded Minnesota Gophers sweatshirt, his gear bag slung over one shoulder. He settled onto the bench beside me.

"Need help with those?" He nodded toward my skates, where I still wrestled with laces that seemed determined to stay knotted. Without waiting for a response, Pike reached over and began working at the knot with steady patience.

"You scared the shit out of me tonight," he said quietly. "When Kozlov hit me, I mean. Not the hit itself—I've taken worse—but watching you almost come over the boards like that."

I studied his profile as he concentrated on my skate.

"Thought you were gonna lose it completely," he continued. "And then you didn't. You... stopped. Stepped back. I've never seen anything like it."

"Didn't feel like stopping. Every instinct I had was screaming to get out there and tear his fucking head off."

"But you didn't." The knot finally yielded to Pike's persistence. "You stayed on the bench because that's what the team needed. That's what I needed."

Mercier finally finished his rituals and headed for the door. We were alone except for the distant sound of Augusta's maintenance staff beginning cleanup.

"I saw you hold back," Pike said. "I know what that cost you."

"You were worth it."

Pike rested his hand on my knee. It wasn't sexual. It was a simple connection acknowledging what we'd been through earlier in the night.

He spoke softly. "Thank you for defending me out there without throwing a punch. For showing me what real strength looks like."

"And thank you for what you did with Sanders. Nobody's ever..."

"Nobody's ever what?"

"Had my back like that. Not in a locker room, anyway."

Pike smiled. Mr. Sunshine had returned. "Better get used to it." He squeezed my knee. "We should probably get out of here before security comes looking."

"Yeah." I bent to finish removing my skates. "Pike?"

"Yeah?"

"What you said to Sanders... about us being something more than linemates. The whole room heard it."

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