Page 87 of Hard Check

Instead, he made a no-look pass back across the crease.

The puck arrived at my stick as I crashed the net; Worcester's goalie was still sliding across his crease, trying to follow Pike's movement. I had six inches of open net and all the time in the world to bury it.

Twenty-three hundred people rose to their feet with noise that rattled the rafters. I watched Pike's face as our teammates mobbed us. He'd set up the goal with the vision that separated good players from great ones, and he was grinning like he'd scored it himself.

TJ crashed into us, helmet knocking against helmets. Monroe and Lambert piled on from behind.

Through the chaos, I caught Coach's reaction—arms crossed, nodding once with the satisfaction of someone who'd just watched his game plan executed to perfection. If it were the last goal I ever scored in this building, I'd remember it for the pass that came before it.

The pass. Pike's pass. The trust it represented and the understanding it required. It was the perfect climax to everything we'd built together.

As we skated back to center ice for the face-off, Pike bumped my shoulder with his glove. "Nice finish, old man."

"Nice pass, kid."

From that point forward, the win seemed inevitable.

As the third period wound down with the score still tied, Pike cut across the neutral zone and drew both defensemen toward him. Without looking, he flicked the puck backward, right into my path.

I didn't think. I just ripped it.

The sound of the puck hitting the net, that sharp, glorioustwang, rang through the arena like a gunshot.

Game over.

Our bench exploded. The crowd surged to its feet. All I saw was Pike, skating toward me, helmet already off, grinning like he'd just rewritten the ending of our story.

He leaped into my arms, and for a second, nothing else existed—not the scouts, the call-up, or the future—only us.

While the rest of the team filed off the ice, I grabbed Pike's wrist. "Stay behind for a minute?"

He turned toward me. "Sure."

Together, we glided to center ice.

The overhead lights had been dimmed, casting everything in shadows that softened the arena's harsh edges. I turned to face Pike, close enough to see the questions in his eyes.

"This place," I started, then paused, searching for words that could carry the weight of what I wanted to say. "This was never only a job for me. Other guys, they punched the clock and collected paychecks and moved on when something better came along."

Pike waited with patience.

"But you?" I exhaled slowly. "You changed everything. Even the way I end."

Pike's eyes opened wide. "Carver—"

"No, let me finish." I stepped closer. "I thought I knew what retirement looked like. Fading out, being forgotten, and watching from the sidelines while the game moved on without me."

I ran my fingers down from his wrist to his hand. "Instead, I got to be part of something that matters. I got to help build something that will last long after I hang up my skates." I gestured toward the empty seats and the banners hanging in the rafters. "You're taking pieces of this place with you. Pieces of all of us."

Pike nearly lost it, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. "I don't want to leave."

"I know, but you have to."

"What if I'm not ready?"

I smiled softly. "You've been ready since the day you walked into that locker room. You just needed time to grow into what you already were."

"Thank you," Pike whispered.

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