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Chapter one

Carver

A ssistant Coach Landon's hand landed on my shoulder as I finished lacing my boots. The locker room had mostly emptied, just a few stragglers gathering gear and trading worn-out jokes about last night's scrimmage.

"Mac wants you." He lowered his voice like he was delivering bad news. "Now."

I kept my eyes fixed on my laces, giving the left one a final, unnecessary tug. "What, did I forget to pay my tab at his daughter's wedding?"

TJ snorted from two stalls down, tossing a ball of tape that bounced off my helmet. "Must be about the net you crashed into yesterday. Those things cost money."

"Or the rookie you traumatized yesterday." Our goalie, Mercier, never looked up from taping his goalie stick with methodical precision.

"Maybe he finally wants my skincare routine," I grabbed my water bottle. "Lord knows his forehead's got more creases than the fucking rulebook."

As I stood, I caught my reflection in the dented metal locker door—hair still damp from practice, the familiar purple shadows beneath my eyes. I was starting my sixth season with the Forge, and the only thing that had changed was the deepening lines around my mouth.

"Twenty bucks says you're getting traded to Moose Jaw," TJ called after me, his laughter chasing me down the hall.

"Twenty bucks says you're getting traded to your mother's basement." I didn't turn and let my voice off the cinder block walls.

As I walked, the joke faded, and the knot tightened. Five completed years in the minors meant I knew how these unexpected summons usually played out—with packed bags and a firm handshake that never lingered.

I might be out before the new season officially started. We were still three days from opening night against Providence.

Coach MacPherson's office was smaller than most penalty boxes I'd occupied—a concrete cube wedged between equipment storage and the trainer's room. The door stood half-open, and I rapped my knuckles against the frame out of habit.

"Enter or exit, Carver. The hallway draft is killing my sinuses."

I stepped inside and froze. Matsson Pike sat in one of the two metal folding chairs, back impossibly straight, like someone had replaced his spine with a hockey stick. His blond hair was still damp from the shower and combed neatly behind his ears. He offered a quick smile and an awkward half-wave when he saw me.

Of course, it's something about Pike.

The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, painting everything in that particular shade of arena gray that made even healthy people look ill: everybody but Pike. Even under the harsh light, the kid glowed like he had his own personal filter—cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes clear and alert.

"You joining us or merely admiring Pike's haircut?" Coach's gravelly voice broke through my hesitation.

I dropped into the empty chair, the metal legs scraping against concrete. The space was so cramped that our knees nearly touched. Pike smelled faintly of that fancy soap he kept in his shower kit—something with cedar and orange. I caught myself leaning slightly closer before straightening in my chair.

The office reeked of Coach's black coffee and the menthol cream he rubbed on his bad knee. Six cork boards covered the walls, layered with lineup possibilities and statistical breakdowns that he updated obsessively.

"I'll keep this brief." He leaned forward. Three coffee cups crowded the edge of his desk, each containing varying levels of what had probably once been drinkable. "Management wants a more structured mentorship program this season. Veteran-rookie pairings."

I glanced sideways at Pike, who nodded with such earnest enthusiasm you'd think Coach had just outlined the blueprint for world peace instead of another corporate-mandated team bonding exercise.

"And you picked us because...?" I let the question hang, my thumb picking at a callus on my palm.

Coach fixed me with a stare that had withered tougher men. "Pike's coming off a breakthrough season. NHL scouts are circling. That means there are expectations."

Pike shifted in his seat.

"And me?" I asked, though part of me already knew the answer.

Coach leaned back, his chair groaning. "You're not getting faster, Holt. This may be your last shot to leave something behind besides penalty minutes and quotes in post-game interviews."

The truth landed hard. I'd felt it coming—my body had been telegraphing it for months with each new creak and twinge—but hearing it spoken aloud hollowed out my chest.

I always thought I'd know when it was ending. That I'd feel something big—some obvious sign. It turns out it's just your coach quietly reminding you that no one will remember your name.

I forced a smirk. "So, what do you want from me, mentoring sunshine over here? You sure he can handle all this charm?"

"I think I can learn a lot from you." Pike spoke up with a steady and sincere voice. There was no sarcasm, no irony—only genuine respect, which somehow made it worse.

To him, I was likely some wise elder statesman instead of a thirty-year-old forward with joints that sounded like popping bubble wrap with every morning stretch.

"Your physical game creates so much space." He leaned forward. "And the way you read defensive positioning—"

"Save the highlight reel," I cut him off, uncomfortable with the naked admiration. "We haven't even started yet."

Coach pulled a clipboard from the mountain of paperwork and handed it to me. The edges were worn smooth from thousands of previous handoffs.

"Schedule's here. Check-ins after practice, one-on-one sessions twice weekly. I want mentorship logs." His eyes narrowed. "Real ones, Carver, not the shit you usually scribble on medical forms."

I flipped through the pages—detailed practice plans, evaluation metrics, and reflection questions. "Jesus, Coach. Did you stay up all night with a scrapbooking club?"

He ignored my jab. "This isn't only about Pike improving. Leadership isn't measured by how loud you yell on the ice."

That stung more than I wanted to admit. I'd always been vocal—the first to call out lazy plays and the one who could energize the bench with the right cutting remark. Still, I'd never be captain material. Dane was gone, and we needed a new one, but I knew it wouldn't be me.

"Pike needs someone who won't blow sunshine up his ass." Coach folded his fingers together. "And you need a legacy that matters." He looked between us. "Make it work."

The dismissal was clear. I rose first, Pike half a second behind me, our chairs scraping in unintentional unison.

Coach called to us as we reached the door. "Tomorrow morning, eight sharp, before team skate."

I grumbled. "Didn't know we opened that early."

"You know it's 24-hour access. Use your key."

After Coach's claustrophobic office, the locker room felt vast. I tucked the clipboard under my arm and headed across the room, hoping to escape whatever earnest conversation Pike was undoubtedly formulating.

It didn't work. His legs were younger, unburdened by five seasons of minors-level travel and back-to-back games on concrete-hard ice. He matched my stride effortlessly.

"I am looking forward to this," he began. "Been studying your tapes since juniors."

I grunted, scanning the clipboard. Eight mandatory sessions per week. Individual skill development. Leadership modules.

Coach had even included a section labeled "Emotional Intelligence Benchmarks." It would make a good coaster for my next beer.

Pike continued to ramble. "—how you create space in the corners. It's not only physical. It's psychological—like you convince guys you're more dangerous than you actually are."

I looked up sharply. "Gee, thanks."

"That came out wrong." Pike winced. "I meant—"

"Save it for tomorrow," I cut him off, unwilling to watch him backpedal.

As I approached a bench, Pike stepped ahead of me. That's when I caught it—a slight wince as his right foot took weight. It was a barely perceptible hitch in his step that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

I focused my attention on it like a laser. Rumors had circulated all summer—some accident in July, something about a fall on wet pavement—but the official line had been "minor issue, fully resolved." Watching him now, I knew that was pure, grade-A horseshit.

Pike glanced back, catching me watching him. Something vulnerable flickered across his face before disappearing behind that camera-ready smile.

"Eight AM. Anything specific you want me to prepare?"

I stared at him, mentally calculating how much weight he kept off that right leg. How much pressure it would take before that carefully maintained composure cracked. How many games he might last before the injury resurfaced.

"Yeah." I folded my arms over my chest. "The truth about that ankle."

His smile faltered, guard dropping for a beat. "It's nothing. Summer—"

"Bullshit. You're favoring it. And if you're gonna lie to me before we even start this mentorship charade, we might as well tell Coach it won't work."

Pike glanced around the now nearly empty locker room and then exhaled slowly. His whole expression collapsed for a second—like someone yanked the plug on his public face.

"It's not the ankle." He whispered the answer. "It's the knee. Partial tear of the MCL in July. The team doctor says it's stable enough to play."

"Does Coach know?"

"He knows I'm cleared."

"That's not what I asked."

Pike stared at me. "He knows what the medical staff told him."

Which meant no—Pike had kept the full extent of it quiet. I'd seen it a hundred times: young guys hiding injuries because they were afraid of losing momentum, being labeled fragile, and missing their narrow window of opportunity.

"The doc—" Pike started.

"—wants his bonus for keeping players on the ice," I finished. "Trust me, kid. I've been around this block a few times."

I'd seen that same limp before—on Tyce Emerson, back in my second year. The kid kept it quiet for three weeks until his knee exploded in January.

Never made it back after surgery. Now, he works at his uncle's roofing business. No jersey. No ice.

One wrong turn, and you're… gone.

I looked down at the clipboard again, at the schedule Coach had created with such military precision. Early morning sessions. Extended drills. Video review. All the while, Pike was quietly nursing a knee that could give out at any wrong twist.

"Meet me at seven-thirty instead; we'll need time to adjust the program."

Pike frowned. "I don't need special—"

"It's not special, it's smart." I cut him off. "No one's getting a call-up with a blown-out knee."

A half-smile appeared on Mr. Sunshine's face. "Thanks, Carver."

I grunted, shouldering my equipment bag and turning toward the exit, clipboard heavy in my hand. "Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow's still gonna suck."

He laughed, and the sound followed me down the corridor. He's still hurt, and Coach stuck me with him anyway. Either this is punishment, or Coach was betting I'd give a damn.

Which was funny. Because now I did.

I pushed through the double doors into the parking lot, where the October air hit my face with a bracing slap of reality. The Colisée was a testament to Lewiston's complicated relationship with hockey—weathered and outdated but still the beating heart of local pride.

I fished my keys from my pocket and approached the only vehicle parked in the far corner of the lot—a 2008 Ford F-150 with more rust than paint and a passenger door that refused to open in temperatures below twenty degrees.

The truck had survived three Maine winters with me, its frame salt-eaten but engine still growling to life with stubborn reliability each morning. Like me, it was running on borrowed time, but too damn stubborn to admit it.

I tossed the clipboard onto the passenger seat, where it landed atop yesterday's half-eaten sandwich. The engine coughed twice before catching, the familiar rumble vibrating through the frame like arthritic bones setting into motion.

As I backed out, I saw Pike emerging from the arena doors, his designer duffel slung carefully over his left shoulder to avoid weighting his right side. He moved toward a leased Audi that practically sparkled even under the overcast sky.

"World of difference," I mumbled, shifting into drive and pulling away.