Page 10

Chapter ten

Pike

T he bedsheet tangled around my ankles, unfamiliar in texture and weight. For a disoriented moment, I couldn't remember where I was until I spotted a battered stereo system perched atop a scratched wooden side table.

Beside it stood a precarious tower of CDs—Springsteen's weathered face on one, the angry red lettering of Rage Against the Machine on another, and between them, a blank disc with "Summer '16" scrawled across it in black Sharpie.

It was Carver's guest room. I lay on my back, absorbing the details in the early morning light.

The room was neither neglected nor particularly cared for—only existing in a state of suspended animation. A tattered Soundgarden poster clung to the far wall. Near the window, a hockey gear bag had been shoved beneath a dresser, its contents probably forgotten seasons ago.

It was like opening a time capsule to parts of Carver he didn't share with teammates. I was getting glimpses of preferences and phases of his life that existed outside the arena.

From beyond the partially open door came the soft, rhythmic sounds of his breathing. It wasn't quite a snore—more like the ocean waves at low tide, persistent and strangely soothing.

I slid from beneath the covers and padded across the room. The morning stretched between us, blank and unwritten. What would we say when his eyes opened? Would he look at me with regret or, worse, with nothing at all?

The warmth of our connection the night before felt fragile in the cold morning light. Maybe that kiss was an anomaly, somehow connected with the blizzard.

I dressed and gathered my belongings, slipping them into my pockets. In the kitchen, I located a notepad with a local hardware store logo and a pen that barely worked.

Thanks for the shelter. You're a surprisingly decent host. -P

The words were insufficient—almost unbearably small compared to what happened between us. But what else could I say? That I couldn't stop thinking about his mouth? That I was terrified of what it meant? That I wanted more and didn't know how to ask for it?

I placed the note on the counter where he'd find it, propped against a half-empty bottle of bourbon. From down the hall came another soft exhale. I paused, listening to that steady rhythm one last time, before slipping out the front door and into the cold.

When I arrived at The Colisée after lunch and a nap at home, it loomed against the late afternoon sky. I trudged across the parking lot, my boots carving dark impressions in the otherwise pristine blanket of now.

I was three hours early for pre-game warmups. That would give me plenty of time to sort through the mess in my head before facing opposition on the ice.

Inside, the arena's familiar scent greeted me—refrigeration chemicals, rubber mats, and that indefinable metallic tang that permeated every hockey rink I'd ever known. The corridors echoed with my solitary footsteps. This far ahead of game time, the building was like a church hours before Sunday services—reverent, expectant, waiting to be filled with noise and purpose.

In the locker room, I found Monroe already taping a stick with a methodical focus. He glanced up.

"Heard you got stranded in the storm."

My pulse quickened. "Yeah. Power went out at Carver's place."

"At Carver's? That's where?" Monroe raised an eyebrow. "Mentorship program's really working out then."

"Just reviewing tape." I dropped my bag at my stall. "Providence's forecheck patterns."

"TJ said he tried calling you. Wanted to know if you'd drowned in a snowbank."

The mention of TJ sent a dart of anxiety through me. He noticed everything and made jokes about everything. He must have been the one who figured out I was stranded. If anyone could read the shift between Carver and me, it would be him.

I began my pre-game routine with deliberate precision, arranging each piece of equipment in its designated spot. The familiarity of the actions soothed my jangled nerves. Stick. Skates. Pads. Jersey.

Mercier arrived next, nodding silently before claiming his corner stall. The goalie's presence steadied me. He never demanded conversation to fill the silence.

The room gradually populated with bodies and voices. Warm-up music thumped through portable speakers. Someone complained about road conditions. Another voice debated tonight's starting lineup.

Suddenly, Carver's voice cut through the chatter from the doorway.

"Hope you boys skated this morning. The ice is garbage after the power outage."

I kept my head down, pretending to be absorbed in my pre-game stretching. From the corner of my eye, I kept an eye on Carver. His body language didn't hint at what had happened between us.

When he settled into his stall, he turned his head to watch me. The expression was unreadable. He didn't smile or nod. Only observed.

TJ stepped between us, blocking my view. "Pike! Thought the snow swallowed you whole."

"Almost." I forced a grin. "Car nearly got stuck three times on the way back from Carver's."

"Carver's?" TJ's expression brightened. I feared what mischief he was planning. "You two are having slumber parties now? Do you braid each other's hair?"

Carver interrupted. "We were watching tape. You might try it if you want your assists to improve."

The engagement wasn't unusual. Carver often shut down TJ's teasing with precision strikes.

Coach entered with his clipboard, and the room's energy shifted into pre-game focus. He outlined matchups and key points, voice gruff and certain.

I tried to concentrate on his words instead of my awareness of Carver ten feet away. It was nearly impossible to drive the memory of his mouth out of my mind.

When Coach dismissed us for individual preparation, I exhaled—thirty minutes until warmups.

I retreated to my corner as my teammates dispersed to finish their preparations. I needed to center myself and focus on the upcoming game.

Looking for solitude in the weight room, I balanced on one leg near the training tables, stretching my hamstrings. My knee was solid—no warning throbs or whispers of instability.

I heard footsteps behind me as I headed into the hallway to return to the locker room. It was the familiar cadence of Carver's stride.

He passed me without stopping or speaking. He only delivered a subtle nod and slightly tilted his head toward a back corridor leading to a janitor's closet.

I counted three seconds and then followed.

The back hallways of the Colisée were a labyrinth in need of maintenance. The concrete walls were painted in fading Forge colors, and exposed pipes ran along low ceilings.

Carver led me past the trainer's office and through the narrow passage where broken sticks accumulated in barrels until we reached the equipment room's rear entrance. The space smelled of grinding metal and leather conditioner. Skate sharpeners lined one wall. Jerseys awaiting repair hung from hooks nearby.

He stopped in the shadow of a tall shelving unit loaded with spare helmet visors and gloves. The distant mechanical hum of the Zamboni vibrated through the walls, a reminder of the game waiting for us.

Carver turned toward me and backed up to the cinder block wall. He grumbled, "Your note was garbage."

"I didn't know what else to say."

"How about 'Goodbye'? Or 'See you at practice'? You could have said literally anything instead of sneaking out like it was a one-night stand."

My face flushed. "I thought you might want space."

"Space." He exhaled sharply through his nose. "If I wanted space, I wouldn't have invited you over."

"For tape review."

"Right. Providence's forecheck. Very educational."

We stood close enough for me to detect the faint scent of his soap—something with sandalwood, masculine but not overpowering. My skin prickled.

I'd expected strategy talk. It would be something about a return to professional boundaries. He might even backpedal or share regrets.

Instead, Carver's gaze dropped to my mouth, and my heart skipped.

He whispered, "Tell me to stop."

I didn't.

Wrapping his right hand around the back of my neck, he pulled me forward with surprising gentleness. When our lips met, it wasn't hesitant or fumbling like the night before. Carver's Kiss was warm and confident.

I reached out for him, gripping his sides. He tasted like the spearmint gum he always chewed before games.

Our tongues brushed, and something electric shot up my spine. It wasn't exploration anymore. It was acknowledgment.

When Carver pulled back, his pupils were dilated, and his breathing had quickened. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to break free.

He exhaled slowly, his hand still warm against my neck. "We need to talk."

Icy fear raced through my veins. "I know."

A burst of laughter echoed from somewhere down the corridor—teammates were approaching. We separated instantly, and our professional space reasserted itself.

Carver's expression shifted back into his familiar public persona. With a slight nod, he slipped past me and disappeared around the corner.

I remained frozen, trying to reorganize my thoughts into some coherent pattern. The taste of him lingered on my lips, and the shape of his hands still burned against my skin.

When I returned to the locker room, it buzzed with pre-game energy. I moved through it like a sleepwalker, present but separated by an invisible barrier.

TJ intercepted me as I reached my stall.

"Earth to Pike." He narrowed his eyes. "Where'd you disappear to? Was about to send a search party."

"Stretching. My knee felt tight."

"Right." TJ leaned against the adjacent stall. "Nothing to do with why Carver's suddenly acting like someone stole his favorite chew toy?"

"What?"

TJ jerked his chin toward the far side of the room. Carver sat methodically, lacing his skates. There was something tightly coiled in his posture—a contained energy that wasn't a usual part of his pre-game routine.

"Man's wound tighter than Mercier's goalie pads. Did you two have a mentor-mentee squabble during your blizzard bonding?"

"Everything's fine."

"Sure." TJ clapped my shoulder before retreating to his own preparation, but the interaction left me feeling exposed as if my skin had thinned to transparency.

Coach's whistle cut through the pre-game chatter. "Five minutes, gentlemen. Channel that energy where it belongs—on the ice, not in your mouths."

I mechanically completed my equipment check—the rhythmic pattern of securing each piece and testing each strap. I carried it out on autopilot while my mind replayed the moment in the equipment room with unsettling clarity.

Carver's mouth. Carver's hands. Carver's voice, low and certain: We need to talk.

What did he want to say? That it was a mistake? That we needed to stop before it affected the team? Or something else entirely?

I pulled my jersey over my head, the familiar weight settling across my shoulders. Number 12 in silver and black. A concrete identity when everything else was uncertain.

As we lined up for the walk to the ice, Carver fell into position three players ahead of me. I stared at his broad shoulders.

When he glanced back over his shoulder, our eyes connected. Something passed between us—not a message, more like a current.

The muffled roar of the crowd filtered through the tunnel as the doors opened. Cold air rushed in off the ice. Our world would contract to a slick sheet and a six-ounce puck for the next three periods. Everything else—questions, kisses, confusions—would have to wait.

I followed my teammates toward the light and noise, but with each step, I considered what happened in the hallway. I'd followed Carver, thinking he'd advise me about the game ahead. Instead, he'd given me something that made the solid ground beneath my skates feel precarious.

And now, I didn't know how to play the game we'd started.