Page 12

Chapter twelve

Pike

T he Forge's equipment room smelled of rubber, leather, and the metallic tang of recently sharpened skates. Carver leaned against the grinding bench, arms folded across his chest. The whir of the building's ventilation system drowned out any sound that might leak from the hallway.

I closed the door behind me, heart drumming against my ribs. Three days had passed since our kiss in his apartment, two since he'd pulled me into the dark corridor outside the weight room.

"Anybody follow you?"

I shook my head. "No. TJ's trapped Monroe in a conversation about proper tape application." I stepped closer, narrowing the gap between us. "I told them I forgot something in my car."

"How long before they notice we're both missing?"

"Fifteen minutes. Twenty, if Mercier decides to tell that story about his cousin in Manitoba again."

Carver pushed off from the grinding bench. "I've got something to say."

"I'm listening."

He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "What happened in my apartment—"

"—and the hallway," I added, unable to resist a slight grin.

"And the hallway, yeah. It all changes things."

"Good or bad?"

"Complicates things."

I stepped closer, my t-shirt brushing against his. "Sometimes, I like complicated things."

"No, you don't. I saw how you pack for road games. You like everything neat and organized. Your locker's like a fucking department store display."

I couldn't stop a grin from forming on my face. "And then some things are worth the mess."

His eyes darkened, but I didn't detect any anger. "If we're going to do this—whatever this is—we need ground rules."

The statement surprised me. I'd expected him to still be hesitant. I didn't think he was ready for a contract negotiation.

"Ground rules. Like what?"

He held up one finger. "Nobody knows. Not TJ. Not Mercier. Not a single person in that locker room."

"Total secrecy." I nodded. That request wasn't unexpected or unwanted. The idea of the team finding out made my skin crawl.

"Second," Carver continued, "hockey comes first. We're professionals. On the ice, in practice, during games—none of this exists."

"Agreed."

"Last rule." He exhaled deeply. "We're honest with each other. About everything. Especially the hard stuff."

That one caught me off guard. Carver wasn't known for his emotional transparency.

"Honesty?"

"Yeah. If we're risking this much, lying to each other makes it worse. I want to know when you're frustrated or scared or when your knee feels like it will collapse. And I'll tell you—" He looked at the floor for a moment. "I'll tell you when retirement is eating me alive."

His requests were startling in their simplicity—three rules to navigate our uncharted territory.

"I can do that," I said.

"You sure? Because once we start this, backing out is messier."

I studied his face—the shadows beneath his eyes and the stubble along his jaw. I'd never wanted anything the way I wanted something to work with Carver.

"I'm sure. Are you?"

He nearly laughed. "No, but I'm doing it anyway."

Footsteps in the hallway sent us springing apart. My heart nearly exploded as I scrambled for something to look at. I grabbed a roll of stick tape from a nearby shelf as the door swung open.

Coach stood in the doorway, clipboard in hand. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene—me clutching random tape and Carver suddenly fascinated by a skate blade.

"Gentlemen, are we taking inventory after hours?"

Carver recovered first. "Pike needed specific tape. Monroe's been hoarding the good stuff."

I held up the roll, praying my face wasn't as flushed as it felt. "Found it."

Coach's gaze lingered on us a moment longer. "Team bus leaves at seven tomorrow. Don't be late." He turned to go and then paused in the doorway. "Pike?"

"Yes, Coach?"

"That's goalie tape. Wrong pattern for stick handles."

The door closed behind him, leaving us in stunned silence until Carver's shoulders began to shake with suppressed laughter.

"Smooth. Real smooth."

I stared at the wide, padded tape in my hand and felt ridiculous. "So much for secrecy."

"Hey." Carver stepped close again. "It's okay. He didn't see anything."

"I should get back before TJ sends a search party."

"Yeah."

For a flicker of a second, Carver's hand brushed mine again, a deliberate touch so slight it might have been imaginary. Then, he was gone, slipping through the door and back into the realm where we were only teammates, mentor and mentee, nothing more.

I waited thirty seconds before following, counting breaths to slow my racing pulse. Three rules. It was the structure meant to contain whatever was burning between us.

It wouldn't be enough, but it was a beginning.

The road between Lewiston and Springfield curved like a slumbering snake, endless and hypnotic. Our team bus hummed along the interstate, most guys dozing with headphones clamped over their ears or buried in game footage on tablets.

I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass, watching my breath fog the surface in expanding circles. Sleep had proven impossible despite the gentle rocking motion. My thoughts circled back to Carver, our rules, and the electricity that seemed to arc between us, even across the crowded bus.

He sat three rows ahead, his dark hair barely visible over the seat back. We'd boarded separately, careful not to disrupt our usual routines. I always sat mid-bus; he preferred the back corner, where fewer people bothered him. Today, though, he'd chosen a spot closer to the front, breaking his pattern.

When most of the bus had fallen asleep, I saw movement in the aisle. Carver appeared, water bottle in hand, making his way toward the bathroom at the rear. As he passed my row, his shoulder bumped mine.

"Sorry." He pitched his voice loud enough for others to hear.

"No problem," I answered, equally loud.

He continued past, but the warmth of his touch lingered on my arm. Looking back at the window, I watched my reflection smile.

Springfield's ice gleamed under bright arena lights, freshly resurfaced for our warmup skate. Coach divided us into lines for passing drills, barking instructions that echoed in the empty building.

For forty-five minutes, we were purely professional, focused entirely on the task at hand. I settled into the rhythm of practice. My knee was solid, with no warning twinges or phantom pains.

Near the end of the session, Coach called us together for a five-on-five scrimmage. I found myself on Carver's line, the two of us paired with TJ, Monroe, and Mercier against the second line.

"Keep it clean," Coach instructed. "Game speed, but no contact."

The whistle blew, and we scattered into position. Carver hovered on the blue line while I circled deep, drawing the defense toward me. Without looking, I knew exactly where he'd be—just as he seemed to know my trajectory before I moved.

"Jesus," TJ muttered as we regrouped. "Did you guys practice that?"

I shook my head, unable to explain the connection unfolding between us. It wasn't only chemistry. It was choreography. Like we were writing something together, and only we knew the steps.

After the third time we connected for a scoring chance, Coach blew his whistle, bringing the scrimmage to a halt. "Pike, Carver." He beckoned us over. "Whatever you two are doing, bottle it. That's the kind of anticipation I want to see tonight."

Carver nodded. "Just working on the mentorship stuff you assigned, Coach."

"It's paying dividends. Keep it up."

As we skated back to position, Carver's glove brushed mine—another touch that could be dismissed as accidental but wasn't. It was so subtle that no one else would notice, yet it shot through me like lightning.

We were playing two games now: hockey and whatever lay beneath it. The currents ran parallel, sometimes merging and sometimes diverging—both required concentration.

***

The Rusty Puck was the kind of dive bar that seemed to exist outside of time—neon beer signs with burnt-out letters, dark wood worn smooth by decades of elbows, and a jukebox that hadn't updated its playlist since the early 2000s. It smelled of spilled beer and ancient fryer oil.

For The Forge, it also smelled like victory.

We'd beaten Springfield 4-2, snapping their six-game home winning streak. My goal in the second period tied the game, and Carver's assist on TJ's rocket from the point in the third gave us the lead. The rest of the team stormed the ice when the final buzzer sounded, mobbing Mercier for his thirty-eight saves.

Wedged into a semicircular booth with half the team, I sipped a beer and soaked in the rare, uncomplicated joy of a road win. Everyone was buying rounds. TJ had commandeered the jukebox, feeding it quarters for songs that made Coach wince from his corner seat at the bar.

Monroe raised a glass. "To Pike's filthy fucking deke that made their defenseman look like he was skating in cement!"

A chorus of cheers erupted. I grinned, accepting the praise while trying not to seem too pleased with myself.

TJ added his praise. "And to Carver for not getting tossed into the penalty box for once." He clinked his beer bottle against Carver's. "Your assist was almost as pretty as your face."

"Careful, Jameson. Keep complimenting me, and I'll start to think you care."

The table erupted in laughter. I allowed myself to look at Carver, really look, for the first time since we'd left the arena. His hair was still damp from his post-game shower, pushed back from his forehead in careless waves. A day's worth of stubble darkened his jaw, and his eyes reflected the colored lights from the neon signs above the bar.

He caught me looking and held my gaze for a beat. Then, he lifted his beer in a small salute meant only for me before turning his attention back to the group.

The party expanded as the night wore on. Several local fans had recognized us, sending over pitchers and asking for autographs on napkins and coasters. I signed a few, smiling for photos and doing the good-sport routine that came so naturally to me.

When I returned from one such interaction, Carver had vanished from our table.

I scanned the bar, finding no trace of him. Mercier caught my confused expression and jerked his chin toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.

"Think he went to call his mom."

The statement was plausible—Carver did call his mother after games, though usually from the privacy of his hotel room. He told me he used to talk to his brother all the time, but that ended after a brutal car accident.

I waited three minutes before excusing myself to use the bathroom.

The hallway behind the bar was considerably darker than the main room, lit by a single bulb with a yellowed glass shade. The men's room door stood slightly ajar on the left, while the women's remained firmly closed on the right. Beyond them, the corridor hooked sharply right, leading to a fire exit and what appeared to be a storage closet.

I glanced back toward the main bar, ensuring no one had followed, before proceeding past the bathrooms. Around the corner, the lighting dimmed further, casting the narrow space in deep shadows.

"Took you long enough."

Carver's voice emerged from the darkness as his hand closed around my wrist, tugging me forward. He'd positioned himself in the recessed doorway of the storage room, deep in the shadows.

"Had to wait. Mercier's watching."

"Mercier's always watching." He pulled me closer until my chest brushed his. "It's the goalie in him. Notices everything."

"You think he knows?" I asked, suddenly anxious.

Carver's hand released my wrist to settle on my hip, firm and possessive. "No, but he notices patterns. We need to be careful."

He rubbed small circles with his thumb. "I've been thinking about this all day. Watching you on the ice, the way you move..." He exhaled sharply. "Driving me fucking crazy, Pike."

My heartbeat thundered in my ears. Anyone could walk down the hallway—a teammate, bartender, or a random patron looking for the bathroom.

I challenged Carver. "Then do something about it."

He gripped the back of my neck and pulled me into a kiss that stole my breath. Unlike our previous kisses, this one was hungry and sure.

Carver kissed the way he played hockey—with intensity and precision, paying attention to what worked and adjusting accordingly. When I gasped as his teeth grazed my lower lip, he did it again, harder.

A burst of laughter from the main room dragged me back to awareness. I broke the kiss, breathless and dizzy.

"What if someone sees?"

"Then I guess we move faster." There was just enough ambient light to watch his mouth curve into a smile. "But no one's coming this way. TJ just started karaoke."

As if on cue, TJ's voice bellowed through the bar's sound system, a mangled version of "Sweet Caroline" that would make Neil Diamond weep.

I laughed softly, forehead dropping to rest against Carver's shoulder. "This is insane."

"Completely, and we should get back before they notice."

"Probably."

I turned to head back to the rest of the team, and Carver gripped my wrist again. "I switched rooms," he whispered.

"Switched?"

"Told Coach I had some more mentoring pointers to share. Mercier's going to stay with the Jameson zombie."

The revelation that Carver had orchestrated room changes—that he'd planned for us to be together—made my spine tingle.

He kissed me once more, softer but no less intense. "Later."

When I rejoined our table, TJ was finishing his butchered rendition of "Sweet Caroline" to thunderous applause. I settled back into my seat, accepting a fresh beer from Monroe and forcing myself to focus on the conversation around me. But beneath the surface banter, my mind remained fixed on a single thought:

Later.

***

Carver shut the door behind us and dropped the key card on the table like it weighed a hundred pounds. Then, he just looked at me. He didn't smirk or try to act suave. Only looked.

I wanted to say something clever, but my brain was running on empty. I blurted out, "Mentorship check-in?"

Carver smiled. "Yeah, let's go over your goals. See where you need hands-on support."

Igroaned. "Thatwasterrible."

"I'vehadworselines."Hetookastepcloser. "Youokay?"

Inoddedtoofast. "Yeah.Imean.Nervous.But...yeah."

"Yousure?"

"No, but I want this. You. I just—" I laughed, sharp and awkward. "I've never done this before. With a guy. So, if I, like, put my elbow in your eye—"

"I'll survive. Do you think I've got a perfect playbook for this?"

"Idon'tknow.Youwalkaroundlikeyoudo."

He wrapped his hands around my waist. "We figure it out together. Deal?"

"Deal,"Iwhispered.

The first kiss wasn't graceful. I turned my head too much, and he kissed half my cheek. We laughed against each other's mouths and tried again.

Thatonelanded.

We broke apart long enough to breathe, and Carver pulled his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. "If I'd known I'd be stripping under fluorescent motel lighting someday, I'd have prepared better."

"You're doing fine." I reached out to touch his bare chest and stared at the dark trail leading down into his jeans.

WhenItriedtotakeoffmy shirt,Isomehowgottangledinthesleeves,flailedforbalance,andfellbackwardontothebed.

Carverlaughed—reallylaughed,nothisusualgrunt-laugh—andclimbedoverme. "Yougooddownthere?"

"Eventually."

He helped me out of the shirt with exaggerated gentleness, like I might break.

Hishandsslidupmyarms,slowandreverent. "You'rebeautiful,youknowthat?"

"Nope,"Isaid,voicetoohighandtight.

"Well.Youare."

It wasn't frantic or like in the movies. There was no swelling music or seamless choreography—only skin against skin and more laughter than I'd ever expected.

We fumbled through it.

Carver's hands were warm and sure on my back, then my shoulders, and then hesitating at the waistband of my shorts. I made a sound between a gasp and a chuckle because I realized I still had one sock on.

We both stared at it silently before Carver declared, "Bold move."

"Shut up." I kicked it off and nailed him in the shoulder with it by accident.

He retaliated by trying to yank my sorts down with all the finesse of a hockey player untying their skates with their mitts still on. My foot caught in the fabric, and I lost my balance, flopping hard onto the mattress.

My elbow swung wide and clipped the side of Carver's face. It wasn't painful, but it was enough to make him grunt and roll off me.

"Damn, I thought you were the coordinated one." He sprawled like roadkill across the bed.

"I am! It's your fault. You were in the way."

"Uh-huh."

He reached for me again, kissing the corner of my mouth and jaw like he was mapping new territory.

I explored him with my fingers, tracing the curve of his spine.

At one point, he caught my wrist and guided it between us. For the first time in my life, I wrapped my fingers around another guy's cock. It was soft, silky, and veiny.

Carver grabbed a small bottle of lube he'd placed on the side table and squirted some into my hand. My heart fluttered in my chest.

We shifted until our hips aligned. He stroked me, and then he stroked us together. I nearly leaped out of my skin.

I closed my eyes, reveling in the intense pleasure. Suddenly, Carver froze.

"Ohgod,"hehissed.

"What?"Iwhispered,halfwaytopanic. "What'swrong?"

"Cramp.Thigh.Shit—"

He flopped backward like he'd taken a sniper shot, clutching his leg, groaning, and rolling off the bed.

I blinked and then cracked up. "You literally injured yourself in bed?"

"Don'tmakemelaugh,IsweartoGod—"

It was too late. I laughed so hard I had to bury my face in the pillow while Carver cursed and pounded his foot on the carpet.

When he finally climbed back into bed, all the tension was gone. He looked younger, happier, and perfect.

"Youokaynow?"

"Gimmeasecond, andI'llbeMVPagain."

"YouwereneverMVP."

"Please.You'rejustmadIbeatyoutothethighcramp."

I rolled my eyes and kissed him before he could get another jab in. It was softer, slower—our bodies moved together like we'd kicked the awkwardness to the curb.

There was nothing fancy. No script or plan. Just two guys in a cheap motel bed, figuring each other out with hands, mouths, laughter, and heat.

And damn, it was good.

Real. Like we'd both pulled off our armor and said, "This is how I really am. Still want me anyway?"

Andtheanswer,frombothofus,wasyes.

Therewasn'tpenetration.Justenough.Justus.

Somewhereinthemiddleofit,Iwhispered, "Isitsupposedtofeellikethis?"

Hepulledbackjustenoughtolookmeintheeye. "Likewhat?"

"LikeIcouldcry.Orlaugh.Orclimboutofmyskin."

"Yeah,"hesaid. "Exactlylikethat."

When release finally came, Carver swallowed my gasp with a kiss, his hand never faltering in its steady motion. He came moments later, face buried against my shoulder, a string of half-formed words vibrating against my skin.

After, we sprawled out in tangled motel sheets, breathing like we'd run sprints, Carver reached over and wove his fingers through mine.

We were silent for a few minutes, and then he cleared his throat. "If Coach asks how our mentorship session went…"

"I'lltellhimwecoveredcoredevelopment."

Carverchuckled. "You'regettingcocky."

"Notyet, butI'mgettingthere."

When the first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the motel blinds, I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. My heart hammered with every nerve on edge.

Becauseeverything—andImean everything —itched.

Myskinfelttightandstickyinthathorriblepost-sweat,post-sex,maybe-post-apocalyptickindofway.Ihadn'tshowered after.Whyhadn'tIshowered? I always did when I had sex with women.

Domenshowerrightafter?WasthatathingIwassupposedtodo?

Carver didn't shower. He fell asleep within minutes.

Fuck.

Isthishowyougetcrabs?Dopeopleevenstillgetcrabs?

I tried to shift under the covers without scratching, which was as successful as it sounded. I groaned. Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Then, from beside me.

"Jesus Christ, Pike."

Carver'svoicewas loud, likeaslap shottotheforehead.Iflinched.

He rolled out of bed. "What the fuck is wrong? I thought you wake up with a sunshine smile on your face."

I clutched the sheet tighter, still trying to squirm subtly. "Do you… do you feel itchy?"

"What?"

"Ijustwokeup, andit'slike…mywhole—downthere—areais…itchy."Iwinced.

Therewasabeatofsilence between us.

Carter snorted, and then he exploded. Likefull-on,bent-over,wheezinglaughter.

"Are you—fuck—are you asking me if sex is contagious?"

"No, but the itch—"

"What the fuck, Pike? You never jacked off to fall asleep and woke up the next morning scratching like a motherfucker?"

Iblinked. "I always clean—that's a thing?"

"It'sdriedjizz,man.Welcometomanhood. Your royal highness has encountered the terrible affliction of crusty balls."

Iburiedmyfaceinthe pillow.

"IthoughtmaybeIwasallergictosomething.Latex.Lube.You."

Carvergrinned likehewaswatchingthebestsitcomrerunofhislife.

"You're allergic to being too uptight. That's all. Take a piss, wash your junk, and let's call it even."

Hepausedfordramaticeffect, and then he waggled his brows

"…Unlessyouwantmetoinspectthedamage.Professionally."

Ithrewapillowathishead.Hedodgedit,stillsmugashell.

Butyeah—Igotupandwenttoshower.Fast.

Becauselovemightbeblind,butitshouldn'tbeitchy.