Page 9 of Hard Check

"You think you could maybe call for a pass once in a while? Some of us like assists in our stat column."

"Can't hear you over the sound of your fancy footwork."

Coach leaned over from behind, his voice cutting through our banter. "Less comedy, more backchecking."

As the game unfolded, I realized something new had entered my field of awareness. I watched Pike with the focused attention I usually reserved for opposing defensemen. Each stride, turn, and battle along the boards—I studied it all. The injury didn't seem to hamper him, but there was a caution in certain movements, a calculation that hadn't been there last season.

"Pike!" I shouted with five minutes left in the second period. "Stop telegraphing your crossovers! Their winger has you figured out. Mix it up."

He nodded, face flushed from exertion. "Got it."

"And for Christ's sake, lead with your left shoulder when you go to the corner. They're looking to put you through the boards."

Mercier leaned over as he skated by my side. "Look at you, all mentor-like. It's almost heartwarming."

"Shut up and focus on stopping pucks. Your five-hole's big enough to drive the Zamboni through."

"Love you too, Carver."

Seconds later, we gained possession in the neutral zone. Pike accelerated up the left wing, exactly where I'd advised earlier—a seam behind Providence's second-line winger. The defenseman committed early, lunging toward Pike with an outstretched stick.

His execution was perfect—weight shift, shoulders faking one way, stick handling the puck through the narrow gap I'd pointed out. Two quick strides put him in the high slot with space. He released a slap shot in one fluid motion that caught the goalie sliding left while the puck went right.

The goal horn blared as the puck hit twine.

Our bench erupted, sticks hammering against the boards.

"That's what I'm talking about!" I hollered over the noise. "See what happens when you listen to me?"

Pike spun in a tight circle, arms raised, face transformed with pure, unfiltered joy. Not the manufactured celebration you see in highlight reels, but something raw and real—like he'd forgotten anyone was watching. His teammates converged on him, gloves slapping his helmet in celebration, but he looked directly at me for a moment before they reached him.

He had a flushed face, eyes bright with adrenaline, grinning so wide it looked like his cheeks might crack from the strain. There was something so damn authentic about his celebration, so unlike the polished interviews or the careful way he managed himself around the team. This was Pike stripped down his essence—a kid who'd just done what he'd dreamed of doing.

That smile hit like a fucking freight train.

We were up 2-1 as the third period began. Providence had a size advantage but seemed thrown by our pace.

"Carver, what are you seeing out there?" Coach asked, surprisingly deferring to me in front of the team.

I straightened, suddenly aware of all eyes on me. "Their defense is gassed. They can't handle sustained pressure. We keep rolling lines, and they'll crack more in the third."

Coach echoed my observations. "Keep the pressure. They're getting frustrated. Make them chase. Pike, Carver—good chemistry out there. Keep finding each other."

Eight minutes in, Pike made a clean pass at the blue line, head up, textbook form. What he didn't see was their defenseman—Novak, number 44—lining him up from the blind side.

The hit was borderline late. Open ice. Shoulder driving through Pike's chest. It was the kind of collision that shows up on highlight reels or disciplinary review videos, depending on your perspective.

Pike went down hard.

My reaction was instant and visceral. Before I could think anything over, I was across the ice, gloves dropped, shoving Novak with enough force to send him stumbling backward.

I snarled at him. "The fuck was that? You looking for a problem? I'm your fucking solution."

Officials converged, whistles blaring. Linesmen inserted themselves between us as Novak grinned, muttering something in Czech that didn't need translation to understand its contempt.

"Say it in English if you want your teeth to stay in your head." I strained against the linesman's grip.

Coach joined the group. "Carver! Enough!"

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