Page 79 of Hard Check

"I know."

"You okay with that? With them knowing?"

He looked at me. "Are you?"

I thought about it. The idea of the team knowing should have terrified me. Instead, all I felt was relief. I was relieved at not having to pretend anymore and not having to maintain careful distance or hide the way Pike had become vital to me.

"Yeah, I think I am."

"Good."

As we stepped into the cold night air, Pike bumped his shoulder gently into mine.

"So," he said, "Captain Carver, huh?"

I snorted. "Don't start."

"Too late. I'm already picturing the speech. You'll grunt twice and threaten to punch someone, and the team'll eat it up."

I smiled despite myself.

I was no longer walking out of arenas alone. And maybe I never would again.

Chapter twenty

Pike

Coach'sshriekingwhistleannouncedthe end of practice, and I immediately knew. It wasn't from anything Coach said or did—he stood at center ice with the same weathered expression he wore whether we'd scored or blown a two-goal lead. It was the way his eyes found mine across the rink. It set off a flock of birds in my gut.

"Carver. Pike. My office."

The words echoed off the arena walls. Around me, my teammates focused on gathering equipment and leaving the ice, but they also watched me with furtive glances.

I skated toward the bench. Each stride carried me closer to whatever reckoning waited behind Coach's door, and my fertile mind came up with a wide range of potential disasters: suspension, trade, or someone had seen Carver and me together and reported it to the suits. The rookie camp invitation could vanish with a single phone call.

Carver fell into step beside me as we headed toward the tunnel. He'd already set his jaw preparing for battle.

TJ called across the locker room. "You two look like you're walking the last mile. What'd you do, burn down the equipment room?"

I managed what I hoped passed for a casual shrug. "Guess we'll find out."

When we reached Coach's door, I hesitated. I wasn't sure I was ready for what waited inside.

Carver knocked once—sharp, decisive.

"Enter."

Coach sat behind his desk, arms crossed over his chest, studying us carefully. "Close the door," he said.

The click of the latch sounded like a cell door slamming shut.

He wasn't angry. He didn't have a white-knuckled grip on his clipboard. Coach looked tired, maybe.

"Sit." He gestured to two metal folding chairs.

I perched on one, and the office was small enough that Carver couldn't sit on the other without our thighs brushing. He assumed his default position—spine straight, face blank, and ready to take whatever punishment was coming.

Coach leaned back in his chair. It creaked in protest. For a long moment, he said nothing.

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