Page 15

Chapter fifteen

Carver

I leaned against the tunnel entrance post-practice, miming checking my cell phone, but really watching the usual controlled chaos unfold. Then, the info leaked.

It started with Monroe suddenly straightening and turning toward Pike's stall. Then Mercier's voice cut through the ambient noise. It was a rare deviation from his stoic tone.

"Holy shit, Pike. Syracuse? For real?"

The words hit me like a puck to the solar plexus. Of course, I knew before the rest of the team, but it struck me differently.

A ripple of congratulations started spreading outward like rings in disturbed water. NHL rookie camp. I forced myself to keep staring at my phone screen, scanning meaningless text messages and weather updates.

Mercier wrapped Pike in one of those awkward hockey hugs—all shoulder pads and a careful stance to avoid catching equipment on equipment. "Knew you were going places. The question was never if, only when."

Pride was my first reaction. It always was with Pike—that instinctive surge of satisfaction when someone I'd invested time in succeeded. He'd earned the invitation. The kid deserved his shot.

Next was a second wave, the emotional one that left me gripping my phone hard enough to crack the screen.

He's leaving.

Not immediately, not tomorrow, but the trajectory was clear. Rookie camp would lead to training camp, training camp would lead to a roster spot, and a roster spot would lead to Pike disappearing into a world I'd never be invited to enter.

I looked up, drawn by some masochistic need to watch his face during his moment of triumph. He stood surrounded by teammates, accepting handshakes and backslaps with that megawatt smile.

When he spotted me across the crowded room, his smile wavered for a moment before he turned back to TJ, who was already launching into some story about a buddy who'd made it to rookie camp. The guy returned with tales of facilities that made our setup look like a beer league operation.

I should have walked over and added my congratulations to the chorus. Instead, I remained frozen in the tunnel entrance, watching Pike soak up praise while carefully avoiding participation.

"Hey, Carver."

I turned to find Sanders, one of our newer defensemen, hovering at my elbow. The kid couldn't have been more than twenty, still baby-faced enough that he probably got carded at gas stations.

"You ever do one of those rookie camps?"

The question was innocent enough, a natural part of the curiosity that came with being new to professional hockey. He probably figured I had wisdom to share, war stories from my own brush with NHL attention.

"Yeah." My voice was clipped and harsh. "Once."

He waited for more, but I had nothing else to share. What was I supposed to say? That I'd been twenty-four when the Colorado Avalanche invited me to their camp? That I'd spent three sleepless nights preparing, convinced I was finally getting my break? That I'd been cut on day four after a scrimmage where nothing went right, and everything I touched turned to garbage?

"Cool." Sanders sensed he'd stepped into territory he didn't understand. "That's... cool."

He drifted away, leaving me alone with memories I'd worked hard to bury. That camp had been my shot—my one real chance to prove I belonged at the highest level. When it ended with a handshake and a "thanks for coming out," I'd told myself there would be other opportunities.

There weren't.

Seven years later, while I watched Pike's genuine excitement, that old wound cracked open again. The difference this time was that Pike had the talent to survive the cut. He had the pure skill that scouts drooled over.

He was everything I'd never been.

Stop it, I told myself. This isn't about you.

The bitter taste in my mouth suggested otherwise.

It was a Friday, and that meant The Icehouse would be crowded, perfect for drowning my mood in beer and my trademark sarcasm. I claimed a booth in the back corner with TJ and a couple of the older guys, positioning myself where I could see most of the bar without appearing to follow anyone in particular.

TJ launched into a story. "So I told her, if you're gonna criticize my parallel parking, you better be prepared to demonstrate the proper technique." He gestured with a chicken wing for emphasis. "Next thing I know, she's got my keys, and she's showing me up in front of half the neighborhood."

Mercier snorted. "How's that working out for your ego?"

"My ego's fine. It's my passenger side mirror that's having issues."

I should have listened more closely and contributed some cutting remarks. Instead, I kept glancing over to where Pike sat with a different cluster of teammates.

He was at a high-top table near the bar, surrounded by our backup goalie and two of the younger forwards. From my angle, I saw his profile when he turned to respond to whatever story Monroe was telling. He was laughing too loudly and frequently, like someone trying very hard to prove he was having a good time.

He'd been avoiding looking in my direction since I arrived.

The deliberate avoidance stung more than I wanted to admit. We'd perfected the art of stolen glances over the past few weeks. Now, there was nothing. Pike threw himself into conversations with theatrical enthusiasm while I sat twenty feet away feeling like a ghost.

TJ snapped his fingers in front of my face. "Hey, Carver, are you gonna join us for this round?"

"I'm here." I reached for my beer; it was lukewarm.

"Could've fooled me. You've been somewhere else all night." TJ looked across the room and connected the dots. "Ah. Rookie camp blues."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on, man. Pike gets his big break, and suddenly, you're brooding like someone stole your favorite stick. It's not subtle."

I forced myself to look at TJ instead of checking Pike's table again. "Kid worked for it. He deserves the shot."

"Sure he does. That doesn't mean you have to be thrilled about losing your best winger to the big leagues."

If only that's all I was losing.

That thought was the kind I said I would avoid. Pike's invitation had nothing to do with me and everything to do with his own talent and dedication.

So why did it feel like someone was slowly pulling my chest cavity open with rusty pliers?

"I'm already thinking about line combinations for next season. It's gonna be a different team." That last part wasn't a lie, but I knew I wouldn't be around to see the new line combinations.

TJ signaled for another pitcher. "Different doesn't have to mean worse. Besides, who knows? Maybe the kid will flame out and come crawling back to us lowly minor leaguers."

The words were meant as a joke, but I wanted to defend Pike and point out that he wouldn't flame out because he was too smart and fundamentally good at hockey to wash out of a rookie camp. Saying any of that would reveal more than I wanted to show.

I settled for a noncommittal grunt and took another sip of terrible beer.

"You okay?" TJ studied my face. "You look like you just bit into something rotten."

"Fine." I pushed back from the table. "Just need some fresh air."

"Carver—"

"Five minutes."

I reached the parking lot before my carefully maintained composure started to crack. The November air bit at my face and hands, sharp enough to cut through the fog of alcohol and regret that had been building all evening. Snow was starting to fall in fat, lazy flakes that melted the instant they hit the asphalt.

I fished my phone out of my pocket more for something to do with my hands than because I expected any messages. The screen was blank except for the time—9:47 PM—and a weather alert warning of snow mixed with freezing rain overnight.

This is temporary, I'd told Pike just days ago. We were always temporary.

The words had been meant as protection, reminding us that whatever we'd built had an expiration date. I'd thought I was being realistic, practical, and maybe even kind by acknowledging the inevitable before it blindsided us.

Now, it felt like the stupidest thing I'd ever said.

Standing in a parking lot, watching snow fall while Pike celebrated his future inside, I realized that temporary didn't make it hurt less. If anything, knowing our time was limited made every moment of distance feel like a countdown to something I wasn't ready to lose.

I stayed outside until my fingers went numb, and my breath formed clouds thick enough to obscure my vision. When I finally headed back inside, Pike's table was half-empty. The celebration was winding down.

Our gazes met for the first time all evening. For a heartbeat, neither of us looked away. Something passed between us—recognition, regret, maybe even longing—before Pike turned back to a story from Monroe, and I retreated to my corner booth.

The rest of the evening blurred together in a haze of forced conversation and foul-tasting beer. By the time the last call came around, half the team had already drifted away to cars or girlfriends.

I was gathering my coat when someone brushed against my shoulder. It was Pike, finally close enough to touch, leaning in like he was going to say something.

He didn't. He straightened and walked past me toward the exit, leaving only the faint scent of that citrusy shampoo.

The silence in my apartment was like a living thing pressing against my eardrums. I'd left the Icehouse without saying goodbye to anyone, slipping out through the back exit like a coward.

Now I sat on my couch in the half-darkness, with the only light coming from the television. I'd tuned it to some silly sitcom rerun, but I couldn't summon enough interest to care about the plot.

My beer sat untouched on the coffee table. The apartment felt smaller than usual as if the walls had crept inward while I wasn't paying attention.

He's leaving.

The thought had circled my brain for hours, wearing a groove like skate blades on fresh ice. Pike was leaving—not tomorrow, not next week, but eventually, inevitably, as surely as winter followed fall in Maine.

The rookie camp was just the first domino in a sequence that would end with him in a different league, city, and life that had no space for a washed-up minor-league veteran.

I picked up my phone, thumb hovering over Pike's contact. Three different messages sat in my drafts folder—variations on apologies and explanations that I'd typed and deleted over the past hour. Each one sounded either too desperate or too casual, missing some essential element that would bridge the chasm I'd helped create.

We need to talk.

Delete.

About tonight—I didn't mean to

Delete.

I'm sorry.

Delete.

What could I say that delivered some version of the truth? That watching him celebrate felt like a preview of my funeral?

None of it was his fault. He hadn't asked to be twenty-three with hands that could make pucks dance, or vision that could thread passes through microscopic gaps in defensive coverage. He hadn't chosen to be everything I'd wanted to become when I was his age.

I set the phone aside and scrubbed my hands through my hair, suddenly aware of how thoroughly I'd fucked up the evening. Pike had gotten the biggest news of his career. Instead of celebrating with him or even pretending to be happy, I'd spent the night brooding in corners like some emotionally stunted adult who'd never learned how to process feelings like a functional adult.

Get your shit together.