Page 14

Chapter fourteen

Pike

M y phone buzzed against the kitchen counter as I stood barefoot, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. The email notification sat there like an unexploded grenade—sender: Kevin Morrison, Agent . Subject line: Call me. Good news.

I knew what good news meant. In hockey, only one kind made agents wake up early on a Tuesday.

My thumb hesitated over the screen. The coffee maker gurgled behind me, filling my apartment with the rich scent of dark roast—the expensive kind Carver had started buying after discovering my caffeine standards.

Evidence of him was everywhere: his backup phone charger coiled by the toaster, yesterday's Lewiston Sun-Journal folded to the sports section he'd been reading aloud to me in bed.

I opened the email.

Pike—NHL Rookie Camp invitation came through. Syracuse Sentinels. September 5-12, 2026. This is it, kid. Call me when you're vertical.

The words blurred, then sharpened, and then blurred again. Syracuse Sentinels. Rookie Camp. The phrase I'd been chasing since I was nine years old, stick-handling tennis balls in my parents' basement.

I should have felt lightning in my chest. I should have whooped loud enough to wake the neighbors. I should have called my parents, my sister, and everyone who'd watched me grind through junior leagues, college, and my current purgatory of professional hockey.

Instead, my stomach clenched like I'd swallowed ice water at 2 AM.

The coffee maker beeped its completion, but I couldn't move. My bare feet were rooted to the floor, toes curling against the hardwood grain. Outside, early morning Lewiston stretched gray and quiet under November clouds.

It was supposed to be the moment. It was the payoff for every 5 AM practice, every hit that left me dizzy, and every summer spent in stuffy training facilities instead of at the lake with friends.

So why did it feel like someone was pulling the floor out from under me?

I thought about Carver's face in sleep—how the perpetual tension around his eyes finally relaxed, making him look younger than his thirty-one years. His hand found mine sometime during the night, fingers weaving together like we'd been doing it for decades instead of weeks.

I've wanted this my whole life, s o why does it feel like I just got benched?

The phone rang. Kevin's name flashed across the screen. I let it buzz twice before answering.

"There's my future NHL star." Kevin's voice boomed through the speaker, impossibly cheerful for seven-thirty in the morning. "How's it feel to be living the dream, kid?"

"It feels..." I swallowed, searching for words that wouldn't sound ungrateful. "It feels incredible. Surreal."

"As it should. Syracuse has been watching you all season. That chemistry you've got with Carver? That's what caught their attention. They want to see how you adapt to higher-level talent."

"When do they need an answer?"

"Already gave it. You're going, Pike. This isn't a maybe—this is your ticket to the show."

After I hung up, I stood in my kitchen clutching my phone, surrounded by the scraps of a life I might be leaving behind. I had a framed photo of last season's team resting on my counter. Carver's scowl was visible even in celebration.

A Lewiston Forge magnet attached my lease renewal form to the refrigerator door. I'd signed it last month when the future seemed more predictable.

As I sipped my coffee, all I could think about was how I would tell Carver that his mentorship had been so successful it might cost us everything we'd built together.

When I reached The Colisée, it felt entirely different from the day before. It had the same concrete corridors and smell of rubber and refrigeration, but the walls seemed to press closer like the building itself knew I was keeping secrets.

The locker room buzzed with its usual pre-practice energy. TJ regaled anyone within earshot about his disastrous attempt to cook dinner for his latest girlfriend, while Monroe methodically taped his stick with the focus of a monk illuminating manuscripts. I claimed my stall and began the ritual of suiting up.

Mercier was observant as always. "You look like someone pissed in your protein shake, Pike."

"Rough morning."

Carver entered as Coach blew his whistle for ice time. Our eyes met across the crowded room—a split second of connection that warmed my entire body. He nodded and fell into his usual preparation routine.

On the ice, something inside me shook loose. Maybe it was the guilt gnawing at my ribs, but I flew through drills with an edge that bordered on violence. Every stride had extra bite, and every pass snapped with unnecessary force. When Coach set up two-on-one rushes, I attacked the defense like they'd hurled personal insults at me.

I couldn't dial it back. I drove to the net with reckless abandon. My stick blade found every seam and every gap between the defender and Mercier in the goal.

Coach's whistle pierced the air. "Pike! Reel it in before you hurt someone."

I coasted to a stop. The rest of the team stared—some impressed, others wary, like they'd watched a nature documentary where the predator got a little too enthusiastic about the hunt.

Carver skated over as we rotated lines, positioning himself close enough that his shoulder brushed mine. The contact lasted maybe two seconds, but it was enough to slow my hammering pulse.

"You okay?"

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Carver searched my face, looking for everything I was trying to hide. I thought he might demand answers I wasn't ready to give. Instead, he bumped my shin guard with his stick—a tiny gesture of support.

"Whatever it is, we'll figure it out." He skated away before I could say anything.

When practice ended, I returned to the locker room and peeled off my gear with mechanical efficiency. Mercier appeared beside my stall.

"You've been clearer lately." He settled onto the bench. "You're more dialed in."

The observation caught me off guard. Not clearer, I thought. Just... less alone.

"Guess I'm finally catching my stride." I forced a hint of lightness into my voice.

Mercier nodded. "Just don't go getting called up and leave us behind. Some of us are getting used to having competent wingers."

The words landed like a wickedly aimed uppercut. "Not going anywhere," I lied, the taste of deception bitter on my tongue.

"Good." Mercier stood and shouldered his enormous goalie bag. "Some things are worth staying for."

He headed toward the exit and left me with the weight of his words. I couldn't shake the knowledge that I was about to disappoint everyone who mattered most.

Across the room, Carver finished packing his gear. When he glanced my way, I saw something in his expression—not suspicion exactly, but awareness. He could sense the storm gathering beneath my carefully maintained surface.

I needed to tell him. Tonight. I had to speak before the secret ate me alive from the inside out.

Later that evening, snow clung to my eyelashes as I climbed the steps to Carver's building. I knocked twice, our established pattern, and heard his footsteps approaching. When the door swung open, he stood there in worn jeans and a henley that had seen better days. The sight of him—solid, real, mine for however long we lasted—took my breath away.

"You look like hell," he said.

"Charming as always." I stepped inside, shaking snow from my jacket. "Your customer service skills need work."

"Good thing you're not a customer."

Before I could respond, he gripped my waist, pulling me close enough to smell the sandalwood soap he used and count the amber flecks in his dark eyes. The kiss that followed was immediate and hungry like he'd been saving it up all day.

I laughed against his mouth when my snow-cold nose made him flinch. "Sorry. Winter casualty."

"I'll survive." His hands were already working on the buttons of my coat. "Been thinking about this since practice."

"Just this?" I helped him push the coat off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor in a damp heap.

"Among other things." He backed me toward the couch. "Your aggressive streak today was... distracting."

"Distracting how?"

"Made me want to see what you'd do with all that energy in a different context."

My face flushed. Even after a couple of weeks of intimate connection, Carver's directness still caught me off guard.

I collapsed onto the couch, arms spread wide across the back cushions. "Well then. Consider this your opportunity to find out."

He raised an eyebrow. "You're ridiculous."

"But you like that about me."

"Jury's still out." He was already in motion, settling between my legs.

He rubbed my inner thighs through denim, thumbs tracing patterns that made my breath catch in my throat. When he looked up at me, something electric passed between us.

"You sure about this?"

Instead of answering with words, I reached down to rake my fingers through his hair. The gesture said everything I couldn't put into spoken words: Yes. Always. For as long as you'll have me.

Carver's response was to press his mouth to the denim covering my hip bone, a kiss so gentle it felt like reverence. His hands worked at my belt with practiced efficiency, and I lifted my hips to help him ease my jeans down.

The first touch of his mouth was a shock of heat that made me gasp and grip the couch cushions. Carver paused, breath warm against sensitive skin, waiting for me to adjust before continuing his careful exploration.

"Fuck," I managed, head falling back against the cushions.

He hummed in response, the vibration sending sparks up my spine. He grabbed one of my hands as his tongue slowly slid up my shaft with patience that bordered on torture.

My free hand tangled deeper in his hair, holding onto him like he might disappear if I let go.

"Hey." Carver's voice pulled me back to the present. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere. I'm here." I tugged gently at his hair. "Very much here."

"Good." His mouth curved into that rare, genuine smile that transformed his entire face. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

What followed was a masterclass in focused attention. Carver had learned what made me arch off the couch and drew helpless whimpers from my throat.

We hadn't actually fucked yet, but I knew we'd get there on our schedule—if we lasted that long. He applied suction and tugged on my balls with his free hand.

Every time my belly tensed, the tell-tale sign I was on the edge, he'd pull back and stare up at my eyes. I fought to keep them open and focused.

When I finally came, it was with Carver's name on my lips and my fingers twisted in his hair, pleasure crashing over me in waves that left me breathless and shaking.

He pressed one last kiss to my hip before crawling up my body, settling against me with his head on my chest. There, we collaborated on stroking his thick cock until he came with a thick, molten flow.

I wrapped my arms around him instinctively, feeling his solid weight and the steady rhythm of his breathing as it gradually slowed.

"You okay?" he murmured against my collarbone.

"More than okay." I pressed my lips to the crown of his head. "That was..."

"Adequate?"

I snorted. "Fishing for compliments?"

"Maybe." He lifted his head to meet my eyes, expression soft in the lamplight. "Did it work?"

"You're ridiculous," I echoed his earlier words, but there was no heat in it. Only affection so profound that it made my entire body ache.

He settled back against me, one arm draped across my waist in casual possession. I kneaded his shoulder through the thin cotton of his shirt, gathering courage for what came next.

The rookie camp invitation pulsed in my mind like a neon sign, impossible to ignore. Each passing minute was another minor betrayal, another moment of dishonesty layered between us.

"Carver."

"Mmm?" He didn't lift his head from my chest but surfaced from his drowsy contentment.

"I need to tell you something."

That got his attention. He propped himself up on one elbow, dark eyes searching my face with sudden alertness. "That sounds ominous."

"Not ominous. Just..." I swallowed hard, my mouth gone dry. "I got invited to a rookie camp."

For a heartbeat, maybe two, Carver's expression remained unchanged. Then, something changed. It was a subtle rearrangement of features that I might have missed if I hadn't been watching so intently.

He offered a carefully constructed smile. "That's incredible, Pike. Fucking incredible."

His response was genuine but also tense.

"Syracuse Sentinels," I continued. "July fifteenth through twenty-second."

"Rookie camp." He sat up fully, running a hand through his hair. "That's... Christ, that's huge. One step from the team's training camp. How long have you known?"

"This morning. Kevin called after the email came through."

Carver nodded, processing. When he looked at me again, his expression settled into something I recognized from team meetings—professional pride and mentorly satisfaction. It was all the right emotions arranged in all the right proportions.

"You earned this. No surprise here. You're ready for this level."

"Am I?"

"Are you kidding? Pike, you've been playing like you belong in the show since the second week of the season. This camp is just Syracuse catching up to what everyone else already knows."

He reached out to squeeze my shoulder. "I'm proud of you." He meant it. That was the worst part—every word rang with genuine emotion, but underneath it all, I sensed he was already building new walls.

I wanted to shake him, to demand he stop being so fucking reasonable about it. I wanted to rage, argue, or do something other than smile like his world hadn't tilted off its axis.

Before I could stop myself, I asked, "What happens to us?"

It was like I'd lobbed a grenade with the pin pulled. "I don't know," he said quietly. "But Pike, you can't pass this up. Not for anything. Not for me."

"I didn't say I was going to—"

"You better not even be thinking it." There was an edge to his voice. "This is your shot. It's your real-life shot at everything you've worked for since you were a kid."

"And what about this?" I gestured between us. "What about what we've been building?"

Carver's jaw worked silently for several seconds. When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "We always knew this was temporary. That was the whole point—no expectations, no promises. Just... this."

The words hit like a body check I hadn't seen coming. "So that's it? I get good news about my career, and we're suddenly temporary?"

"We were always temporary." It was his brain talking, but something in his tone suggested he was trying to convince his heart as much as me. "You're twenty-three with an NHL future. I'm thirty-one with—" He shook his head. "This was never going to be forever."

I stared at the man who'd just worshipped my body with the reverence of someone who had all the time in the world. He was now talking like he'd always knew a breakup was inevitable.

I sat up fully, suddenly aware of my nakedness in a way I hadn't been moments before. "You don't get to hear about my camp invitation and immediately start writing our obituary."

"I'm being realistic—"

"You're scared." It was a brutally true accusation. "You're terrified that maybe this thing between us is real enough to survive me having options."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't point out that you're already pushing me away before I've even left? Don't notice that you've gone from 'I'm proud of you' to 'we were always temporary' in two minutes?"

He stood abruptly, retrieving his discarded shirt from the floor and pulling it over his head. "You should go."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. You've got a new life to work out. There are big decisions to make." His voice was flat and professional. It was only November, and the camp was in July, but he was already walking away. "I don't want to complicate any of it for you."

I dressed in stunned silence. At the door, I paused with my hand on the knob. "For what it's worth, this morning, when I got the news? My first thought wasn't about the NHL or my career or any of that. It was about how I was going to tell you. How we were going to figure out our future together."

He didn't turn around, but I saw his reflection in the window—his eyes were closed, and his shoulders slumped forward.

"That was my first thought," I repeated. "Not how to leave, but how to stay. Remember that when you're lying awake tonight, convincing yourself this was always just temporary."

The door closed behind me with a soft click that sounded far too final.

Outside, I sat in my car for several minutes, hands gripping the steering wheel, watching Carver's window for any sign of movement. The light stayed on, but he never appeared.

Why does this feel like the beginning of the end instead of a new beginning?

The question followed me home through empty streets. I'd gotten everything I'd always wanted—the invitation, the opportunity, and the chance to prove I belonged at the highest level.

So why did it feel like I'd just lost the only thing that really mattered?