Page 8 of Hard Check

"I'm mentoring, not terrorizing. There's a difference."

The room gradually filled with noise and bodies. Pike continued pacing, his jaw working silently.

I wandered over to Mercier, who'd removed his headphones. "Kid's burning nervous energy like a goddamn bonfire."

"Opening night jitters. Not everyone has your ice-in-the-veins approach."

"Ice in my veins? I hit defrost this morning."

Pike completed three more circuits before I'd had enough. "Pike! Pacing won't change the game. Stick to your habits. Breathe like it's just practice."

He halted mid-stride, swallowing hard. "Right."

"And for fuck's sake, sit down. You're making me tired just watching you."

He finally broke his pacing and sat, unwrapping fresh tape for his stick. "I watched film last night."

"Which means?"

"They make quick decisions. Maybe too fast because the first option isn't always best."

"Look at you, learning words and everything." I tossed him an extra roll of tape. "Their goalie goes down early on his blocker side. Remember that when you're overthinking your shot placement and missing the net entirely."

One of the rookies—Sanders or Samuelson, I couldn't remember which—laughed nervously.

"Something funny, new guy?" I fixed him with a stare.

"No, just—"

"Spit it out. We're all friends here. Except TJ. Nobody likes TJ."

"Hey!" TJ raised his voice in protest.

The rookie straightened. "Just thought it was funny how you always have something to say about everyone's game."

"When you've been here five seasons, you notice things. Like how you're gripping your stick like it's trying to escape. Loosen up before you snap it in half and have to explain to Coach why you need new equipment before the season officially starts."

The kid flushed but adjusted his grip. Small victories.

Coach MacPherson entered without fanfare, clipboard tucked under one arm. "Providence thinks they're taking a win tonight." His voice was gravelly. "Our job is disappointment. Clear eyes, quick transitions. They're bigger, but we're faster. Pike, Carver—you're starting with TJ. Make it count."

My eyebrows rose. "Starting line? Coach, did you mix up your meds again?"

"If I wanted stand-up comedy, Carver, I'd tune into your post-game interviews. Focus on what matters."

I caught Pike watching me, a mixture of amusement and uncertainty on his face. "What?"

"Just trying to remember whether you talk this much during games, too."

"Depends on who's listening. Ready for your big moment, sunshine?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Remember to breathe. And try not to throw up on the ice. Zamboni guy hates that."

The game unfolded in its familiar symphony of sound and motion. Skate blades carved crescents into fresh ice, sending up delicate sprays.

I slid in next to TJ on my first shift back to the bench. "Their defense is slower than my grandmother, and she's been dead ten years."

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