Page 86 of Hard Check

He studied me with his perceptive goalie gaze. "The kid's got good instincts. He'll be fine. You, on the other hand..."

"I'm okay."

"Sure you are. Just remember—letting go doesn't mean losing. Sometimes, it means trusting what you've built to last."

The team set up a pre-game presser to announce Pike's good fortune. I was asked to appear for moral support. I positioned myself against the back wall, arms crossed, watching the controlled chaos unfold.

Pike sat behind a small table draped in Forge colors, hands folded atop a stack of press releases that somebody from the front office had prepared in record time. He wore his good suit—navy blue, sharp-shouldered. It was one his parents bought him to celebrate his first professional season. The Syracuse jacket draped across his shoulders looked foreign as if he were trying on an alternate identity.

Camera flashes popped rapidly, each burst illuminating Pike's face in stark relief. He'd mastered the art of the media smile—polished, confident, hiding the nerves I knew were churning beneath his composed exterior.

"Matsson, how does it feel to bypass rookie camp entirely?" The question came from Janet Morrison, theLewiston Sun-Journal'ssports reporter. She'd covered the Forge for fifteen years and had probably written more words about my penalty minutes than I cared to contemplate.

Pike leaned into the microphone, voice steady. "It's incredible, obviously. An honor. Syracuse has been watching our team all season, and I'm grateful they see potential in what we've built here."

Behind the cameras, our teammates had gathered in a loose semicircle—TJ bounced on his toes like an excited poodle. At the same time, Mercier appointed himself the sergeant-at-arms with his arms crossed. Monroe and Lambert whispered back and forth about whether they'd get called up next.

It felt like family. Messy, chaotic, fiercely protective family watching one of their own step into the larger world.

"Carver." A voice at my elbow made me turn. It was Brad Hutchins from thePortland Press Heraldwith his recorder already running. "Care to comment on Pike's development this season? You've been his mentor. This has to be a proud moment for you."

The room's attention shifted toward me. I cleared my throat, suddenly aware of how many microphones had materialized in my vicinity.

It was easy to spit out a few words. "Pike's got the hockey sense, work ethic, and the character for the show. Syracuse isn't taking a chance on him—they're getting exactly what they think they're getting."

"Any specific moments that stand out? Breakthrough moments in his development?"

I could have told them about the early morning sessions when Pike pushed through pain that would have sidelined lesser players. Instead, I kept it simple. "He belongs there. Always has. Just took the right opportunity for everyone else to see it."

The press conference ended with logistical questions about travel arrangements and roster moves. As the room emptied, teammates surged forward to offer final congratulations. TJ managed to work in one more elaborate handshake sequence. Mercier gripped Pike's hand briefly, whispering something that made the kid's eyes glisten.

The kid was ready. More than ready. And if that meant butterflies crowded my gut as I watched him step into his future, well—that was a small price to pay for being part of something significant.

He caught my eye again as the room cleared and mouthed a "thank you" across the diminishing crowd. I nodded once.

Tomorrow he'd be gone, but tonight, he was still ours.

The news traveled fast, and The Colisée sold out for the game. Signs dotted the stands—"Good Luck Pike!" scrawled in marker on poster board, and a few fans already wore Syracuse jerseys.

Coach gathered us at the bench before the puck drop. "Gentlemen, this is Pike's last game in this uniform. Let's make sure he remembers it."

The first period passed in a blur of controlled chaos. Pike created chances, but the puck bounced wrong, or Worcester's goalie made saves that defied physics. By the first intermission, we were down 2-1, and frustration was beginning to creep into our bench chatter.

"Relax," I told Pike as we filed toward the locker room. "Game's got sixty minutes. We're only getting started."

The second period opened with renewed intensity. Coach had shuffled the lines, putting Pike and me together with TJ, betting that our chemistry could crack Worcester's defensive shell. The gamble paid off immediately—Pike and I moved like we shared a nervous system, anticipating each other's movements.

Midway through the period, the play that would live in my memory forever began innocuously enough. Worcester dumped the puck deep into our zone, a routine clearing attempt that should have resulted in a standard defensive zone face off.

Instead, I got there first. The safe play was a quick chip around the boards to our defenseman. The smart play was a safe clear out of the zone.

But Pike was moving.

In my peripheral vision, I saw him accelerate through the neutral zone, timing his break perfectly to avoid the offside call. He read the developing play three seconds before it happened, positioning himself where logic said he shouldn't be.

I threaded the pass through a forest of legs and sticks. Three Worcester players tried to intercept it. All three were a half-step too slow.

Pike gathered the puck at full speed, one smooth motion that carried him from the red line into Worcester's zone. Their defenseman committed to the body check, exposing the net's far side. Pike could have shot.

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