Page 80 of Hard Check

Finally: "You think you're hiding it. You're not."

My throat suddenly went dry. A prickly sensation crawled up the back of my neck.

Coach continued to speak. His tone was straightforward and matter-of-fact like he was discussing line changes. "I want you both to know what you do off the ice is your business. On the ice, I think we have a playoff shot this season, so I need your heads in the game. Can you give me that?"

Relief suddenly washed over me. It wasn't suspension or a trade. It wasn't the end of everything. Only acknowledgment with a question I could answer.

I nodded. "Yes, sir. Absolutely."

Carver offered a blank expression. "Yes, sir."

Coach studied us for another beat, and then he nodded. "We're done here."

We stood in unison. I turned toward the door, legs still unsteady, when Coach's voice stopped us.

He didn't look up from the papers on his desk. "For what it's worth, I've seen worse matches."

We were halfway back to the locker room before either of us spoke.

I grinned. "Well, that went better than expected."

Carver snorted. "Bar was pretty fucking low."

The locker room had mostly emptied by the time we returned. TJ was still there wrestling with a particularly stubborn piece of tape wrapped around his shin guard. He looked up as we entered, eyebrows raised in theatrical concern.

"So? Firing squad?"

"No," I said, dropping onto the bench in front of my stall. "Just lineup stuff."

"Lineup stuff that required a closed-door meeting?" TJ raised an eyebrow.

Carver added, "Coach likes his privacy."

I focused on unlacing my skates, grateful for something to do with my hands. Coach knew. Had probably known for weeks, to be honest. He didn't care. Or, he cared more about wins and losses than what his players did in their own time.

I rode with Carver back to his place. He was quiet. I slumped in the passenger seat, watching Lewiston slide past the window—strip malls and gas stations giving way to residential streets lined with triple-deckers that had seen better decades.

I finally broke the silence. "Coach practically gave us his blessing. I didn't expect that."

"Coach said he's seen worse matches. That's not exactly a ringing endorsement."

I examined his profile as he drove. "You know what I think?"

"Enlighten me."

"I think you're looking for reasons to worry because the alternative—that this might actually work out—scares you more than getting caught ever did."

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he navigated the turn into his parking lot. "Maybe it does."

We ordered Chinese from the place down the street—nothing fancy, only cardboard containers of lo mein and sweet and sour chicken that we ate straight from the cartons while a Bruins game played on mute in the background. The commentators gestured soundlessly at replays while we conducted our own quiet conversation about everything and nothing.

I speared a piece of broccoli with my plastic fork. "Mercier's been giving me looks ever since Augusta. I think he knows something."

"Mercier gives everyone looks. It's his job." Carver sprawled at one end of the couch, sock feet propped on the coffee table. "Goalies notice everything. Comes with the territory."

"They've been different. More... knowing."

"Well, now he can know all he wants." Carver gestured at the TV with his beer bottle, where a Bruins player was arguing with a referee. "Look at this idiot. Two minutes for being stupid."

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