Page 13

Chapter thirteen

Carver

T he depression in the mattress remained where Pike had abandoned his side of the bed. I blinked awake, disoriented by his absence, my hand reaching across sheets still warm from his body. Six-thirty, according to the clock—hours before either of us needed to be at the rink.

We'd spent enough nights together that Pike's absence felt wrong, like missing the last step on a familiar staircase. It hadn't taken long to grow accustomed to his particular breathing rhythm and how he radiated heat as we edged toward a Maine winter.

On the nightstand, a folded scrap of paper propped against my phone caught my attention. I recognized the back of a gas station receipt; Pike's hasty scrawl covered the blank side. Early call with my agent. Didn't want to wake you—your growling is scarier before coffee. Left protein shakes in your fridge. The ones you pretend to hate but always drink. See you at practice. -P

I snorted, tucking the note into my nightstand drawer where I'd stashed the others—little breadcrumbs of evidence marking whatever trail we were blazing together. The drawer was my little archive of Pike's peculiar mix of thoughtfulness and humor.

I pushed myself upright, rolling shoulders still pleasantly sore from the night before. The memory of Pike's mouth and grazing of teeth against my collarbone sent a shiver up my spine.

In the bathroom, evidence of him remained—a damp towel hung with military precision and his toothbrush leaning against mine in the holder. I'd never allowed those kinds of intrusions into my space before. Pike had a way of slipping past barriers I'd spent years constructing, making himself at home in corners of my life I'd kept empty.

I'd had sex before. Rough, fast, sometimes even good, but never like this. It never felt like someone was seeing inside me, not only taking something from me. The intimacy of it caught me off-guard.

In the kitchen, I found the protein shakes he'd mentioned arranged in a neat row in my refrigerator. Chocolate peanut butter—the ones I complained about but always finished. It had only been a week and a half, and the thought of returning to mornings without him already sounded impossible.

The Colisée greeted me with familiar sounds—the mechanical hum of cooling systems, rubber-soled footsteps echoing off the concrete, and the distant scrape of the Zamboni finishing its morning pass. Rink sounds had been the soundtrack to my life for over two decades. Still, lately, they'd taken on a different quality—expectant, almost, as if the building anticipated Pike's arrival as much as I did.

I exchanged nods with Phil at security and a grunt with Coach, who was hunched over lineup cards in the corridor. My gear bag hung heavy on my shoulder, a comfortable weight I'd miss when retirement kicked in.

The locker room buzzed with pre-practice energy. I claimed my stall and began the ritual of unpacking.

"Morning, sunshine."

I heard Pike's voice before I spotted him entering from the trainers' room. His skin glowed from exertion, suggesting he'd already spent time with his physical therapist. Our eyes met across the crowded space, and something electric passed between us.

"Productive agent call?"

He grinned. "Very. We discussed my exceptional development this season. I might have mentioned my excellent mentor."

"Subtle."

As practice began, Coach divided us into lines for positioning drills, and Pike and I found ourselves paired with TJ for rush sequences against the second defensive unit. In the past, I'd have bristled at being used as a practice punching bag for the younger defensemen, but now I welcomed any excuse to share the ice with Pike.

From the first whistle, we moved like we shared a single nervous system. He anticipated my cuts before I made them, finding seams in the defense that shouldn't have existed. I feathered passes to spaces he hadn't reached yet, knowing instinctively where he'd be three strides later. We connected on plays that would have required months of practice with anyone else.

During a water break, we found ourselves on the bench, shoulders almost touching as we caught our breath.

Pike's eyes were bright. "That backhand sauce through Lambert's legs? Filthy."

"Your finish wasn't half bad. They didn't even see you coming off the half-wall."

"That's because you drew both defenders. Perfect decoy."

Coach's whistle cut through our exchange, summoning us back to center ice for scrimmage assignments. As we skated toward the group, TJ sidled up between us; his voice pitched for our ears only.

"Get a room, you two. The rest of us are getting jealous of whatever telepathic shit you've got going on."

Everything inside me went cold. TJ's smirk carried no malice, only his usual needling humor, but panic flared hot in my chest.

"You want to run your mouth or play hockey?" I snapped.

TJ's eyebrows shot up. "Easy, old man. Only saying you guys are clicking."

But the damage was done. Pike's expression dimmed. He drifted away from me, putting three teammates between us as Coach outlined the scrimmage parameters.

When we resumed play, the magic was gone. Pike's next pass came hard and slightly off-target, zipping past where I should have been if I'd read him correctly. The puck skittered into the corner, and Coach's whistle blasted across the ice.

"Carver! Pike! Did you two lose your connection in the water break? Get it together!"

Pike nodded stiffly. I wanted to take the words back and explain that my reaction wasn't aimed at him—it was the fear of being seen, really seen, by people who'd known me only as the guy with the sharp tongue and the penalty minutes. But the ice was neither the time nor place to discuss it.

After practice, steam billowed from the showers, cloaking the locker room in a humid fog. I lingered at my stall, postponing my shower as I followed Pike through peripheral vision.

He peeled off his practice jersey and under-armor with methodical precision; his back deliberately turned toward me. Around us, teammates traded the usual post-practice banter—complaints about Coach's conditioning drills, debates about lunch options, and plans for evening activities.

I waited until the locker room had mostly emptied, most guys having showered and departed for afternoon commitments. Pike returned from his shower with a towel slung low around his hips, water droplets on his shoulders. He'd taken longer than usual, probably hoping I'd be gone by the time he emerged.

I pitched my voice low. "Need to talk to you."

"Nothing to talk about."

"Five minutes. Equipment room."

His jaw tightened, but he nodded before pulling the shirt over his head.

The equipment room smelled of leather conditioner and metal shavings from the skate sharpener. I positioned myself near the grinding bench. When the door finally opened, Pike slipped inside, closing it carefully behind him.

He wore street clothes—jeans and a Minnesota Gophers sweatshirt that had seen better days. He leaned against a shelving unit of spare visors and kept his distance.

"I'm sorry. I just—TJ hit a nerve."

"You think I don't get that?" Pike's voice was tight. "But don't take it out on me. We agreed to the secrecy, Carver. I'm not the one who made it an issue."

"I know." I dragged a hand across my face, feeling the stubble rasp against my palm. "I panicked."

"And I got to be the punching bag."

That stung, mostly because he was right.

"It won't happen again."

Pike crossed his arms. "Until the next time someone comments. Or gives us a look. Or notices that we're actually—" he gestured vaguely between us, "—whatever this is."

My defensive part wanted to fire back and remind him how much we both had to lose if the wrong people found out. The look on his face—wounded pride—deflated my anger.

My voice was rough as I pushed out words I needed to say. "I think I'm falling and don't know how to land."

Pike's arms slowly uncrossed, his expression shifting from hurt to something more complex.

"We're in this together. If we're going to crash, at least we'll crash together."

He didn't say, "Me, too," but he didn't back away either.

After a sigh, he added, "I shouldn't have pulled away on the ice, but when you snapped like that—"

"I know." I reached for him cautiously. I wrapped my fingers around his wrist, tracing the network of veins beneath his skin. "I'm shit at this, Pike. The whole... letting someone in thing."

A gentle smile appeared. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Smart ass." I tugged him closer until our chests almost touched. "We good?"

"We're good. Just... remember, I'm on your team. Literally and figuratively."

"Hard to forget when you keep leaving your protein shakes in my fridge."

He chuckled. "You drink them."

"Only because they expire."

The equipment room door rattled suddenly, and we sprang apart like guilty teenagers. Mercier's voice filtered through: "Anyone in there? Looking for a replacement chin strap."

"It's open," I called back, moving to put appropriate distance between Pike and me.

Pike caught my eye as Mercier entered, a silent acknowledgment passing between us. We hadn't fixed it all, but we'd started the repair process.

As darkness pressed against my bedroom window that night, the night air had a damp chill that promised more snow by morning. Pike had left an hour ago—reluctantly, after I reminded him we'd agreed not to spend too many consecutive nights together to avoid creating patterns teammates might notice.

I lay in bed, staring at ceiling shadows cast by passing cars. My body ached pleasantly from practice—and Pike's hands afterward. Our equipment room conversation had evolved into something more physical once we'd returned to my apartment. Despite the physical relaxation, my mind refused to power down.

The near-miss with TJ had scraped against old wounds, memories I'd buried under years of careful avoidance. I rolled onto my side, punching the pillow into submission. Sleep remained elusive.

A memory rose in the back of my mind—Ryan Kovacs, sixteen years old to my seventeen, sharing a dorm room at senior hockey camp outside Minneapolis. He'd been all gangly limbs and quick laughter, dark hair falling across his eyes. We'd bonded over identical tastes in music and similar backgrounds—hockey dads who pushed too hard and mothers who pretended not to worry every time we hit the ice.

I remembered late-night walks around the campus and breaking curfew to hang out behind the equipment shed. We bumped our shoulders together as we walked, and neither of us pulled away.

One night in particular surfaced with unexpected clarity—our last evening at camp. We'd wrestled over the one remaining Gatorade in our mini-fridge, a tussle that started as horseplay and transformed into something else entirely when Ryan pinned me to the floor. His weight pressed against mine, breath warm against my cheek, and fingers circled around my wrists.

Time froze. His eyes dropped to my mouth, raising a question that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure. For three heartbeats, there was a possibility.

Then, I twisted away, cracking a joke about his weight and turning the intimate moment into competition. "Get your fat ass off me before I suffocate." I spoke in a deliberately harsh voice to mask the tremor beneath it.

The following weekend, back home, I'd taken Jessica Campbell to the lake house her parents owned. She'd been trying to catch my attention for months. I'd slept with her almost spitefully as though proving something to myself. Afterward, lying in her pink-sheeted bed, I'd felt nothing but hollow victory and lingering shame.

Ryan and I exchanged a few texts that summer, but they grew increasingly sporadic. By the time senior year started, we'd drifted into different social orbits. Last I heard, he coached high school hockey somewhere in Wisconsin and was married with two kids.

I stared at my bedroom ceiling, the weight of two decades' worth of deflection and denial pressing against my chest. "I never gave myself a chance to know," I whispered to the empty room.

It wasn't self-loathing that accompanied the realization—only the weight of having buried something too deep to recognize until Pike dug it up with his earnest eyes and unguarded smile.

The fierce protectiveness I felt toward him wasn't only about shielding him from the potential fallout of our relationship. It was about protecting myself, too.

My phone screen lit up as a text arrived. Pike: Found your missing sock under my car seat. Holding it hostage until you admit protein shakes are actually good.

I laughed and typed a message back. Carver: Enjoy your trophy. I have a drawer full of identical socks.

Three dots appeared immediately. Pike: They miss their brother. Tragic sock separation. I'm sending ransom photos tomorrow.

I smiled at the screen. It was Pike—bright and ridiculous, fearless in ways I was only beginning to understand.

My thumbs hovered over the keyboard as I considered responding with something equally flippant. Instead, I typed: Carver: I miss you too.

It was as close as I could come to articulating the revelation still settling over me. After decades of carefully controlled emotions and relationships maintained at arm's length, Pike made me want to take the risk to know myself.