Page 17

Chapter seventeen

Carver

T he wind screamed around my building like a banshee with unfinished business, rattling windows and sending debris skittering across the parking lot below. I'd given up on sleep hours ago, settling instead for pacing between my kitchen and living room while nursing a mug of chamomile tea, that weak garbage that was supposed to help me nod off.

My shoulder throbbed where I'd collided with Monroe during the disastrous practice session, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the mental loop playing on repeat. It was Pike's face when I'd brushed past him in the locker room.

His voice had cracked when he'd asked if this was just exploration. Then, he maintained careful distance on the ice like I'd become radioactive.

I'd fucked everything up. Spectacularly. Publicly. In front of the entire team.

A knock on my door cut through the storm's symphony like a gunshot. Sharp, urgent, desperate. I froze mid-pace. Who the hell would be out in this weather at—I glanced at the microwave clock—two-seventeen in the morning?

I crossed to the door and peered through the peephole, my heart skipping a beat. Pike stood there, soaked through to the bone, with hair plastered to his skull in ribbons.

Water dripped from his jacket sleeves, forming puddles in the hallway. His eyes were wild and raw like he'd been running from ghosts.

I yanked the door open. "Jesus Christ, Pike. You're drowning out there."

He didn't speak at first. He only stood there shivering, staring at me.

He lobbed a verbal bomb into my apartment. "Was I a mistake—or were you just scared?"

I studied his face until something inside me snapped. I reached out, fingers closing around his jacket sleeve, and pulled him across the threshold.

He stumbled slightly, and we were standing close in the narrow entryway. Steam rose from his soaked jacket like morning fog as the icy night air clung to his skin.

"You're gonna get hypothermia."

"I'm fine." His teeth chattered.

"You're not fine. You're—" I stopped, interrupted by how he looked at me. He was like a drowning man who saw me as the only solid thing in the world.

"I couldn't let you believe I was a mistake. I couldn't walk away thinking that's what you believe."

My throat constricted. "Pike..."

"I tried." He took a shaky breath, shoulders trembling. "I sat in my apartment for hours telling myself I could do it. That I could pretend none of this mattered, but I can't. Fuck, Carver, I can't pretend you don't matter."

I'd convinced myself that I was protecting his future from the wreckage of my limitations. Looking at him, soaked and shivering, I realized I'd been protecting nothing but my own cowardice.

"You think I wanted to say that?" The confession tore from my throat like broken glass. "You think it didn't kill me to watch you walk away?"

"Then why—"

"Because I'm terrified." It was a weakness I hated to admit. "I'm terrified that I'll be the thing that holds you back. That in five years, when you're playing in the show and living the life you've earned, you'll look back and realize I was just... dead weight."

Pike stepped closer. "You're not dead weight. You're—"

His hands came up to frame my face, cold fingers pressing against my jaw. "You're everything," he whispered.

Then, he kissed me.

His lips were cold, but they warmed quickly in the kiss. He backed me into the wall hard enough to rattle the coat hooks. One gave way, and a Forge ball cap bounced off my shoulder.

Pike laughed. I stared at him, dazed, trying to memorize how he looked mid-laugh with water still dripping off his chin.

I kissed him again, slow and sensual, dragging my tongue across his bottom lip to feel him shiver. He groaned—low and rough—and it vibrated in my spine.

Somehow, we made it to the bedroom without falling over the coffee table. I yanked off his jacket, tossed it toward the laundry basket, and missed. He peeled off my shirt with a wet smack, then made a face.

"What the hell? You sleep in tactical cotton?"

"It's a thermal. It's warm."

"It's oppressive." He kissed my chest anyway. "Take it off, or I'll tear it off."

I took it off. Fast.

We were a mess of limbs on the bed, trying to get out of damp clothes and into each other's space at the same time. I elbowed him in the ribs at one point, and he hissed, "Ow," right before yanking me down into a kiss that smothered the apology in my throat.

There was nothing choreographed about it. At first, I didn't know where to put my hands—his shoulder? His waist? His face? Everywhere felt right, so I tried all of it.

He made a sound when I slid my hand under the waistband of his briefs, something between a gasp and a laugh, and said, "Okay, yeah, definitely not done figuring this out."

"Should I stop?"

"Do youthink I want you to stop?"

That made me smile—really smile—for the first time in days.

We moved together like people who knew the stakes and knew the clock was running down but didn't care. He pulled me in like he wanted to memorize the weight of me.

It wasn't perfect. Our teeth knocked once. I couldn't find the lube immediately and ended up fishing for it in the drawer like I was playing a game show challenge.

Then, when I finally touched him, and I thrust into him, wearing a condom, for the very first time, it nearly overwhelmed both of us. His mouth went slack, and he whispered, "Fuck." To me, it sounded like a prayer.

We didn't speak much once we found our rhythm—only breath, motion, and the way Pike kept whispering my name. His legs were tight around my hips, heels hooked behind me.

I'd slowed down to hold the edge there and draw it out, but he pulled me back in with a groan so full of need that it made my legs shudder.

I gripped his cock, my fingers wrapping tight, and pressed my forehead to his. His skin was slick with sweat, flushed in the low light. Every nerve in my body lit up.

"Carver," he gasped.

I pushed in deeper, slower, and the little whimpers… fuck, they undid me. He arched up, meeting me, and I felt it—his whole body tightened, and his legs began to shake. We were close, both of us, teetering.

"Look at me."

He did

His eyes were wide and glassy, pupils dilated, mouth slack. He looked wrecked—in the best way. Wrecked and radiant and mine.

There was a silent beat before his body jerked and his back arched, and he let go with a cry he tried to muffle against my neck. I held him through it.

I didn't last long after that.

It took three more thrusts. Maybe two. His name spilled out of me in a ragged breath, not because I meant to say it but because there was nowhere else for it to go. My body locked up, the orgasm tearing through me hard and fast.

I collapsed onto him, not all at once, carefully, breathing hard into the crook of his neck. Pike wrapped his arms around my back and held me tight like he didn't care how much weight I dropped onto him.

For a while, the only sounds were the wind outside and the thump of our hearts against each other's chests.

When I finally lifted my head, he was watching me. Dazed. Smiling.

"I can't believe I almost walked away," he murmured.

"You still can," I said. My voice cracked on the second word.

"Don't make me kick your ass after sex, Carver."

I barked out a laugh and kissed the top of his head.

We lay there listening to the rain. He started to drift. I didn't.

I stared at the ceiling and whispered so quietly that I wasn't sure I meant for him to hear: "We've got nine months. I'll figure something out."

Pike's fingers found mine under the blanket. He didn't speak, just squeezed—once, firm and sure.

That was enough.

When Pike's breathing finally evened out against my chest, and his grip on my shoulders relaxed into something softer, I pressed my lips to the crown of his head and whispered the truth I'd been too afraid to speak.

"You're not a mistake. You're the best thing that's happened to me in years."

He lifted his head to look at me, eyes bright in the darkness. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Pike slept like the dead, curled against my side with one arm flung across my chest, his breathing deep and even. The storm had quieted, the freezing rain turning to light snow, but I still didn't fall asleep.

I lay still, aware of every point where our bodies connected—his knee pressed against my thigh and fingers splayed across my ribs. His face had gone slack in sleep, and the tension around his eyes had finally released.

The digital clock on my nightstand read 4:17 AM. I'd need to be at the rink for morning skate in three hours. Pike would probably sleep until noon if I let him, exhausted from whatever emotional marathon had driven him through the storm to my door.

I thought about the rookie camp invitation and the timeline that felt both infinite and impossibly short. Nine months until July. Nine months to figure out what the hell we were doing and whether whatever burned between us could survive the pressure of divided loyalties and competing dreams.

The math was brutal in its simplicity: Pike's future lay somewhere else, somewhere bigger than Lewiston and the Forge and everything that had defined my adult life. I'd known that from the beginning, and I had told myself I could handle it when the time came to let go.

Looking at him now—face soft with sleep and body trusted completely to my protection—I realized I'd been lying to myself.

I didn't want to let go. I didn't want to be noble, selfless, or any other virtues that required sacrificing what I'd found with him. I wanted to be selfish and wanted to fight for every day and week and month until someone forced me to choose between his happiness and my own.

"You've got nine months until rookie camp," I whispered to the darkness. "We'll figure it out."

Pike's breathing remained steady, undisturbed by my quiet vow. I closed my eyes and finally allowed myself to drift off to sleep.

The Colisée felt three times as big when it was empty at six-thirty in the morning. Every tiny sound echoed in the cavernous space. I'd left Pike sleeping in my bed, a gentle smile on his face.

Phil nodded from behind his security desk, barely looking up from his crossword. "Early bird today, Carver."

"Couldn't sleep." It was the truth, though not for the reasons he'd assume.

I claimed my stall and began the familiar ritual of gearing up. Left skate first, laces pulled tight but not cutting circulation. Shin guards positioned just so.

"Thought I might find you here."

I looked up to see Coach MacPherson, arms crossed over his chest. He stood in the doorway clutching a steaming travel mug.

"Couldn't stay away."

He approached slowly, settling onto the bench across from me, his knees lightly creaking. The intensity in his gaze told me he was about to say something that mattered.

"We need to talk about what comes next."

"If this is about yesterday's practice—"

"It's not." He waved a dismissive hand. "Pike's good for you. You're good for him. Whatever's happening between you two, talk it out and move forward."

The casual comment hit me hard. Coach knew. Of course, he knew. He'd been reading players for decades.

"Coach—"

"I'm not asking for details." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "But I've got eyes, Carver. I see how you light up when he's around and how he settles down when you're talking him through plays. That's not mentorship—it's chemistry."

I stared into Coach's eyes and saw no judgment. He was a vision of practicality, and he'd seen everything in the hockey world.

"What I want to discuss is your future. Post-retirement."

Realistically, I knew there were a lot of options, but whenever I tried to envision something, all I saw was either an empty void or sitting behind a desk trying to sell insurance.

"I'm offering you an assistant coaching position. Start next season, learn the systems, and work with young players coming up through the pipeline." His weathered face creased into something approaching a smile. "I've watched your instincts on the ice with Pike. You've got the brain for it and the respect."

My mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound emerged.

"Think about it," Coach said, rising from the bench with a grunt. "No rush, but I need an answer before Christmas."

He headed toward the door, then paused. "For what it's worth, coaching's a job that travels. Development camps, scouting trips, guest positions with other organizations." His eyes met mine with knowing intensity. "Flexible schedule for someone who might need to be in two places at once."

Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the possibilities I'd never dared imagine.

An assistant coaching position. A future that didn't end with my playing career but transformed it into something new—the chance to stay connected to hockey while building something beyond the ice.

For the first time since my first meeting with Coach about retirement, I could picture life after my final game, not as an ending, but as a beginning.

Pike's rookie camp invitation didn't have to be the end of our story. It could be a new chapter, one where we figured out how to build a life that honored both our dreams instead of sacrificing one for the other.