Page 11

Chapter eleven

Carver

I showed up half an hour before anyone else usually did, desperate for empty echoes and the scrape of only my skates against fresh ice. Instead, I found him. Of course, he would be there. We couldn't escape each other.

Pike cut across the rink in tight figure-eights, each stride precise and controlled. His breath hung in white clouds behind him like breadcrumbs marking his path. He wasn't practicing anything specific—only moving, testing the edges of his skates against the ice with unconscious joy.

I stood in the shadows of the tunnel, my bag heavy on my shoulder. Last night's win should've left me floating. Instead, I felt leaden, uncertainty tugging at my joints.

That kiss in the storm had changed something. The brash second one in the hallway shifted everything.

Pike spotted me, and his whole body brightened. It wasn't only his face—though that megawatt smile could've powered the entire Colisée. He lifted his stick in greeting.

I grunted something meaningless and turned away, retreating to the locker room instead of joining him. The concrete walls steadied me.

My stall looked the same as yesterday and the five-and-a-half seasons that came before. My nameplate was slightly crooked from where TJ knocked into it last week.

I started lacing up, fingers working numbly while my mind raced. Pike's trajectory pointed up. He was young—twenty-three. He had hands soft enough to settle pucks like they were spooked birds.

And me? I was thirty-one with knees that creaked on cold mornings. I had a body that required twice the maintenance it did at twenty-three. Each new bruise faded slower than the last, and each muscle recovery took a day longer than the year before.

Forty minutes later, I was finishing an impromptu workout in the weight room when the door opened. I didn't need to look up to know it was Pike. The air changed when he entered a room.

He tested me with an attempt at clever rapport. "Thinking of starting a one-man bench press competition?"

I kept my eyes on the clipboard where I'd been tracking sets and reps. "Finishing up."

"Here, I thought you were avoiding me." It was a weak joke, but it had an edge of truth.

After the last rep, I looked at him. His hair was damp at the temples, cheeks flushed from exertion on the ice. He was only eight years behind me, but he appeared so young.

"Not everything's about you, Pike." The words came out sharper than I'd intended.

His smile faded.

"Got it." He nodded and turned toward the door. "See you at practice, then."

He left, and I sat there feeling like I'd just slammed myself into the boards.

***

Practice was halfway through when Coach blew his whistle with three short, decisive blasts. We gathered at center ice. I deliberately positioned myself between Mercier and TJ, across the circle from Pike.

Coach's voice sounded like he'd been eating gravel. "Gentlemen, we've got a visitor today."

He gestured toward the stands where a man in navy blue team gear sat with a clipboard balanced on his knee. The logo was unmistakable—Syracuse Sentinels, a recent NHL expansion club.

"Mr. Halloran's keeping tabs on a few of you," He paused. "But mostly Pike."

A murmur rippled through our team huddle. I kept my face blank, but my stomach collapsed like a poorly constructed dock in a hurricane. I listened to reactions from the team:

"About damn time—"

"—NHL money, baby—"

"—Pike's gonna buy the first round when—"

Pike himself stood silent, glancing from Coach to the scout and then to me. I looked away.

"Alright, back to work," Coach barked. "Two-on-one rush drills. Mercier is in the net, and Jameson and Carver are defending first. Pike and Lambert, you're up."

My legs moved automatically, skating backward to position. Defense wasn't my natural spot, but I'd played it enough in practice to know the angles. TJ slid beside me, tapping my shin guard with his stick.

"You good? You look like someone pissed in your protein shake."

"I'm fine." I executed the drill on autopilot.

It wasn't enough to stop the golden boy. Pike accelerated past me like I was standing still. I pivoted hard, overcorrecting, and slammed into TJ, who'd come over to help. We crashed into the boards with a sickening crack that silenced the rink.

"What the fuck, Carver?" TJ shouted, shoving me back.

Coach's whistle pierced the air. "Goddamnit, Carver! Watch your positioning!"

I untangled myself from TJ, muttering apologies. Pike skated over with concern etched across his features. He stopped just short of touching my arm but leaned toward me like a compass finding north.

"You okay? That looked rough."

The genuine worry in his voice scraped against my raw nerves. I straightened my helmet.

"You've got bigger eyes on you today. Go impress them."

Pike's expression shifted—surprise, confusion, hurt—before hardening into something I couldn't read. He backed away without another word, rejoining our teammates at the blue line.

Coach assigned me to the bench for the remainder of the drill. I watched Pike score twice more, each goal more impressive than the last. The scout made notes, his finger dancing across his tablet.

When practice wrapped up, and we returned to the locker room, I sat in my stall, a towel draped over my head like a monk's cowl. Water from my shower dripped down my spine in a cold trail.

I knew that I should do something other than sit there, marinating in my circling thoughts. When I tried, my limbs were heavy, anchored to the wooden bench.

I wanted Pike to succeed. I wanted him to have his debut in the show, but that meant—

Movement at the periphery of my vision caught my attention. Pike stood at his stall, still in his base layers, hair askew from where he'd tugged his practice jersey off. He wasn't talking to anyone—unusual for him. He wasn't even moving, just standing there, half-turned toward me, clearly waiting.

I kept my head down and pretended to concentrate on unwrapping the tape from my socks. My fingers worked methodically while my ears strained to hear any sounds of him approaching.

None came.

By the time I'd stripped the last of the tape away and balled it up, most of the team was gone. Pike remained, now dressed in street clothes, perched on the edge of his stall. He was patient.

I took my time gathering my things, moving slowly, hoping he'd give up. Take the hint. Celebrate his impending ascent with people who deserved to share in it.

Finally, Pike stood. He didn't look angry—maybe some disappointment. Then, I saw his eyes. Unshed tears glistened in the corners.

Damn! He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He finally turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the concrete corridor beyond the locker room.

I sat alone in the empty locker room, hating how much it ached to watch him leave. How many times had I seen teammates walk away before? Dozens. Hundreds, maybe, over the years. Players moved up or out constantly in the minors. It was the natural order of things.

This one time felt different. It was like watching someone take a piece of me with them.

Almost-made-it guys like me were cautionary tales in locker rooms across the league. We were the veterans who hung on too long and turned bitter watching kids leap past us on their way to the show.

I'd sworn I'd never become that guy—clutching at younger players' jerseys, trying to drag them down to my level out of spite or fear. And yet, there I sat. Alone by choice. Pushing away the one person who'd made me feel something other than resignation about my final season.

I told myself it had to be that way. It was better to push Pike away now before I became the mistake in his past that scouts whispered about during evaluations.

I'd give him the one gift I could offer. I'd make it easy for him to leave.

I was on my way down the hall toward the exit when the door ahead of me opened. I knew who it was before I saw him.

The sunshine had left Pike's face, but he returned. He stood with his legs shoulder-length apart and folded his arms over his chest.

"Are you going to talk to me, or will you keep pretending I don't exist?"

I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Didn't realize we had anything to discuss."

"Bullshit." The word wasn't loud, but it hit hard.

I tried to be casual in my response and missed by a mile. "Look, we won the game. We're doing fine on the ice. Let's just—"

"You've been a ghost since the storm."

He took a step forward and unfolded his arms. For a split second, I thought Mr. Sunshine might hit me.

"One minute we're..." he faltered, then regrouped, "and the next you won't even look at me. What changed?"

"Nothing changed. That's the point." I gestured vaguely between us. "This—whatever happened—it was a mistake."

"A mistake?"

"I'm not what you need right now."

He clenched his jaw. "You don't get to decide that."

"Don't I?" My voice rose despite my efforts to keep it level. "You've got scouts watching you now, actual NHL scouts, Pike. You're twenty-three with your whole career ahead of you, and you're... what? Kissing a washed-up has-been during a snowstorm? What the hell kind of future is that?"

Pike stood his ground. "Is that really what this is about? My future?"

"Of course it is," I snapped. "You think I don't know what happens to guys like me in this league? We fade out. Our bodies give out before our hearts are ready to quit. Every morning brings a new ache, and the pain settles deeper into our bones. Everyone forgets about us. And the only thing worse than that is turning into the guy who tried to take someone else down with him."

"That's not what you're doing."

"Isn't it?" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, trying to recapture my resolve. "You deserve your shot, Pike. A real one, without complications."

"Don't patronize me. I'm not some kid who needs protection from his own decisions."

"Maybe not, but I've seen how this works." I leaned toward him, and he didn't back away. "Best case scenario? You get your call-up, and whatever this is becomes a distraction you don't need. Worst case? Someone finds out, and suddenly, you're not the golden boy anymore. They see you as a potential problem."

"It's not your call to make."

"It is when I'm afraid I'm the guy that will hold you back!"

Silence fell. Pike stared at me, his expression unreadable for perhaps the first time since I'd known him.

The silence stretched long enough that I wondered if he'd simply walk away. I almost hoped he would. It would be easier than whatever came next.

But the easy thing never happened to me.

His expression shifted, determination replacing the hurt I'd seen earlier. He moved deliberately, each step measured as he closed the distance between us.

I backed up instinctively until my shoulders ran into the wall. Pike entered my personal space.

His voice was low and steady. "Let me be clear: you don't get to decide what I need." Hepausedjustlongenoughfortheweightofittoland, and then he pulled out the love story from the season before. "Dane and Leo didn't hide when it got complicated. Look how that turned out."

Then, he kissed me.

He was a quick learner. This one was intentional and confident, as if he'd made a decision and was now executing it with the same precision he had brought to a penalty shot.

His hands came up to my chest, palm flat against my pecs. They anchored us in the moment. He splayed his fingers.

I remained frozen until something inside me unraveled. I reached out for his waist, drawing him closer, surrendering to the inevitable.

When we broke apart, he didn't retreat. His face hovered inches from mine, close enough that I could count individual eyelashes and see the flecks of amber in his otherwise hazel eyes.

He whispered, "Don't decide what's best for me."

The confidence in his voice stunned me more than the kiss. At twenty-three, I'd been all bravado and bluster, using volume and aggression to cover the fact that I was navigating blind. Pike, though... he was already a man on a mission.

"I'm not..." I started, then tried again. "This isn't simple."

"Did I say I wanted simple?" He pulled back slightly, studying my face. "Look, I get that you're scared. So am I. But I'm not afraid of this. I'm afraid of walking away from it without even trying."

"The scout—" I began.

"Is one of the dozens who might come looking for me. My career's important to me. You know that, but it's not the only thing that matters."

I searched his face for any signs of doubt. Instead, I found clarity that made my own fears seem weak and flimsy.

I sighed. "You make everything sound so simple."

A small smile played at the corner of his mouth. "It's not, but some things are worth figuring out, even when they're complicated."

He finally retreated half a step. "Think about it." He pulled his hands back. "But don't think too long."

I watched him turn back toward the exit. He glanced at me over his shoulder. "By the way, that scout? He told Coach he was impressed by our chemistry on the ice. Said we brought out the best in each other." A gentle version of the sunshine smile returned. "Funny how that works."

Then, he was gone.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed for the exit, my mind quieter than it had been all day. As I fumbled with my keys, the realization settled over me with strange clarity: Pike wasn't afraid.

If he, with his whole career stretching before him, could be brave enough to step into uncertainty... maybe I could, too.

I climbed into my truck and sat motionless behind the wheel, watching my breath form clouds in the unheated cab. For years, I'd defined myself by what I hadn't achieved—the call-up that never came and the NHL career that remained tantalizingly out of reach.

He's not afraid. So maybe it's okay if I am.

The thought settled in my chest, not a revelation so much as a permission. I could be uncertain. I could worry. I could want the best for Pike while also wanting him for myself. Those things weren't mutually exclusive.