Page 18

Chapter eighteen

Pike

M y phone buzzed against the nightstand, dragging me from sleep that had been more restless than restorative. I woke in the middle of a dream. I'd been skating through my childhood home, but the hallways kept shifting, doors appearing where walls should be. Carver had been there too, somehow both teammate and stranger, and I'd been trying to explain something important that kept dissolving before I could say it.

It was Thanksgiving. A text from my mother glowed on the screen: Mom : ETA 45 minutes. Dad's driving, so maybe an hour. Love you.

I set the phone down carefully, trying not to disturb the warm weight pressed against my side. Carver's arm lay heavy across my belly, his palm flat against my ribs.

I felt the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through his chest, where it pressed against my shoulder. In sleep, he looked younger—the permanent furrow between his brows smoothed away, mouth slightly open.

We'd been up until nearly two, talking about nothing and everything. The rookie camp invitation. His coaching offer. Whether The Colisée's vending machine actually dispensed edible food or just hockey puck-shaped cardboard. The everyday things felt enormous when whispered in the dark.

My parents were almost here. The same parents who still thought my relationship with Carver was purely professional. They believed the Forge was just a stepping stone, a "good hockey opportunity" that would lead to bigger things. They had no idea that the bigger thing might be the man sleeping beside me.

My stomach clenched. I hadn't seen them since preseason and hadn't talked to them beyond weekly check-ins that skimmed the surface of my life.

I crawled out of bed carefully and padded to the kitchen. My hands trembled as I measured the grounds. Through the window, November in Lewiston was gray, with bare trees creating skeletal patterns against an overcast sky.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent a text: Matsson: Buzz when you get here. Parking sucks.

An ache settled in my chest. It was the dissonance between what was real and what I could share. I loved my parents, but my life had become complicated in ways I'd never anticipated.

From the bedroom came a soft groan, followed by the rustle of sheets. Carver was waking up. "Pike? You okay?"

I poured coffee into two mugs, adding sugar to mine and leaving his black. "Fine. Parents will be here soon. Remember?"

"Shit." The bed creaked as he sat up. "Want me to disappear for a while?"

The offer was practical and considerate. "No. You don't have to. They're taking me to dinner, but..." I paused, stirring my coffee with unnecessary force. "I told them I might bring a friend. A hockey buddy."

Carver appeared in the doorway wearing yesterday's jeans and nothing else, hair sticking out at odd angles. He accepted the coffee mug I offered, wrapping both hands around it.

"A hockey buddy." He tried to hide his amusement. "Is that what we're calling it this week?"

"It's what they think you are."

He was quiet for a moment. "And what do you think I am?"

The question caught me off guard. I knew what he was—what we were—but I didn't have the right words to say it out loud.

"I think you're someone I don't want to hide anymore."

My phone buzzed. Mom: Pulling up now. Dad found a spot right out front—Thanksgiving miracle!

"They're here. I know it's early, but Dad likes to beat the crowds."

I set down my mug, suddenly painfully aware of everything—the rumpled state of my hair, the fact that Carver was half-dressed in my kitchen, and how my apartment probably smelled like the two of us.

Carver read my panic. "I should grab a shirt and make myself presentable for the parents."

Three sharp buzzes from downstairs made my stomach lurch. I grabbed the intercom, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice. "Come on up. Third floor."

As footsteps echoed in the stairwell, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror. I looked exactly like what I was—a guy who'd spent the night with someone he cared about and was now terrified his parents would somehow figure it out.

The knock on my door was my mother's signature—two quick raps followed by a longer one. I opened it to find her beaming at me, arms already reaching for a hug.

"There's my boy." She squeezed me tight enough to crack ribs, her familiar perfume—something floral and expensive—enveloping me. "You look thin. Are you eating?"

"I'm eating, Mom."

My father hung back, grinning. He was wearing his "good" polo shirt and khakis. He'd dressed up for me. When Mom finally released me, he stepped forward for one of his careful half-hugs—the kind that acknowledged affection without lingering too long on emotion.

When Mom reached for me again, he chastised her. "Let the kid breathe, Linda."

"It's been two months," she protested. "Two months since we've seen him in person."

She examined the apartment, straightening magazines and adjusting throw pillows along the way. My father followed, carrying two paper bags that clinked softly as he set them on my counter.

"Brought cranberry sauce. It's the good stuff your mother makes, not the canned garbage."

"Dad, we're going to a restaurant."

"For after." He began unpacking the bags with methodical precision. "She also insisted on bringing pie, even when I pointed out that restaurants typically provide dessert."

Mom was busy examining the framed team photo on my bookshelf. "Apple and pumpkin. I couldn't decide, so I made both. This is from last season, isn't it? You look so young."

"That was eight months ago."

"Yes. Boys grow so fast at your age."

Dad settled onto my couch with the ease of someone who belonged there. "How's the season going? Team keeping you busy?"

"It's good. We're second in the division." I perched on the edge of the coffee table, maintaining careful distance. Too close, and Mom would start fussing; too far, and she'd worry I was pulling away.

"That's wonderful, honey." She claimed the spot next to Dad. "And that mentor we talked about? What's his name—Carver? How's that working out?"

Heat crept up my neck. "It's been helpful. He's... he knows the game."

"Good. You need someone with experience showing you the ropes." Dad leaned forward, coffee mug balanced on his knee. "Your mother looked him up online after we talked last month. Impressive penalty minutes."

"Dad."

"What? I'm just saying it's good to have someone tough in your corner. Hockey's not a cakewalk."

From the bedroom came the soft thud of a drawer closing, followed by footsteps. My parents' heads turned toward the sound.

Mom glanced back at me. "Someone else here?"

My throat went dry. "Yeah, actually. That's Carver. He's, uh—" I scrambled for an explanation that wouldn't sound rehearsed. "He's coming to dinner with us and got here a little early. If that's okay."

"Of course, it's okay." Mom's face brightened. "How wonderful! We'd love to meet him properly."

Carver appeared in the hallway, now wearing a clean Forge t-shirt that stretched across his chest in a way that definitely didn't help my concentration. He'd tamed his hair and wore his trademark carefully neutral expression as if meeting his mentee's parents was the most natural thing in the world.

"Sorry to interrupt. I was just getting ready to head out."

Mom rose from the couch. "Don't you dare. You're Carver, aren't you? Holt Carver? Matsson's told us so much about you."

He stepped forward, extending his hand with the kind of old-fashioned politeness my parents would appreciate. "Ma'am. You must be Pike's mother. I can see where he gets his persistence."

Mom practically glowed. "Oh, aren't you charming? Linda Pike. And this is my husband, Tom."

My father rose from the couch, accepting Carver's handshake. "Tom Pike. A pleasure to meet you. We've heard you've been looking after our boy."

"He makes it easy." Carver was exceedingly smooth. "Smart player. Good instincts."

"That's what we like to hear." My father's chest puffed out slightly with parental pride. "You know, I played a little hockey myself back in the day. Nothing serious, only a college club team, but I appreciate good fundamentals when I see them."

"Matsson's got excellent fundamentals." My face flushed, and I fought to contain the color. "Strong foundation to build on."

Mom clasped her hands together. "Well, this is just perfect. You simply must join us for dinner. I insist."

I'd already told them he'd join us, but Carver continued down his politeness path.

"That's very kind, Mrs. Pike, but I wouldn't want to intrude on family time."

"Nonsense." It was the tone of voice that ended all family discussions. "You're important to Matsson, which makes you important to us."

If only she knew how important.

Dad nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. Besides, it's Thanksgiving. No one should eat alone on the holiday." He turned toward me. "What do you say, Matsson? Room for one more?"

All three of them looked at me expectantly. Having Carver at dinner with my parents was asking for trouble—too many opportunities for something to slip and for them to read more into our dynamic than they should. Still, I'd already told them he was coming.

"Sure," I heard myself say. "If you want to come, that would be great."

A priceless smile spread across Carver's face.

As Dad and Carver headed toward the door to retrieve their coats, Mom immediately turned to me, lowering her voice to what she probably thought was a whisper. "He's lovely, Matsson. Really. So polite. And those eyes—very kind eyes."

"Mom."

"What? It's nice to see you have good people around you. He clearly cares about your development."

Carver reappeared wearing the dark wool coat that made his shoulders look even broader. "Ready when you are."

We filed out of my apartment in a small parade—Mom leading the way while peppering Carver with questions about his playing career. Dad brought up the rear. I walked between them, noticing every glance and every gesture that might give us away.

The November air nipped at our faces as we emerged onto the sidewalk. Dad insisted on driving despite Mom's protests about his parallel parking abilities.

"Shotgun," she announced, already heading for the passenger door. "You boys can chat hockey in the back."

I slid into the backseat next to Carver. His thigh pressed against mine as Dad adjusted the rearview mirror. I concentrated on keeping my breathing steady.

Dad pulled away from the curb. "So, Holt, what's your take on Matsson's development this season? We don't get to see many games, unfortunately."

"He's exceeded every expectation." Carver didn't hesitate with his praise. "His hockey IQ has improved dramatically. The way he reads defensive schemes now compared to the beginning of the season is night and day."

Mom turned in her seat to beam at us. "That's what we want to hear. We always knew he had the talent, but talent only takes you so far, doesn't it?"

Carver agreed. "Talent without work ethic is only potential. "But Pike—Matsson—he's got both.

Mom leaned to the left to examine her face in the rearview mirror. "You should come to visit us sometime. In Minnesota. We'd love to show you around. Wouldn't we, Tom?"

"Absolutely. Got some great hockey history there. Could show you where Matsson learned to skate."

I nearly choked. The idea of Carver meeting my extended family, seeing my childhood bedroom, and sitting at my parent's kitchen table while my mother fed him homemade cookies was simultaneously terrifying and oddly appealing.

Carver was diplomatic. "That's very kind of you. I'd like that."

"Here we are," Dad announced, cutting the engine. "The Riverside Inn. Best turkey dinner in Lewiston, according to the internet."

I had no idea how I was going to survive the next two hours.

The Riverside Inn had transformed itself for the holiday, with autumn leaves scattered across white tablecloths and small pumpkins serving as centerpieces.

"This is lovely," Mom announced, spreading her napkin across her lap as we were seated. "So much nicer than trying to cook for only the three of us."

"Four." Dad smiled at Carver. "Glad you could join us, Holt. Makes it feel more like a proper celebration."

Mom turned her full attention to Carver, "Tell us about yourself. Are you from a hockey family?"

His fingers drummed lightly against the table. "Not really. My dad worked in construction, and my mom was a nurse. I was the only one who played seriously."

"How did you end up in professional hockey then?" Dad leaned forward. "That's quite a jump from a non-hockey household."

"Scholarship to Providence College. Played four years there and did well enough to get some attention from scouts. The path kind of chose itself after that."

"And you've been with the Forge for...?"

"Six seasons now. Longest I've stayed anywhere."

Mom smiled warmly. "It must feel like home by now."

"Yeah," Carver glanced at me. "It does."

We ordered turkey dinners all around because anything else would have felt like sacrilege. Mom immediately resumed her gentle interrogation.

"Do you have family nearby? Parents, siblings?"

Carver's expression turned more serious. "My mom's still in Massachusetts. Dad passed away a few years ago. I had a brother, but..." He exhaled slowly. "Car accident last year."

Mom's hand immediately went to her chest. "Oh, Holt. I'm so sorry."

"Thank you. He would have liked this, actually. Big family dinners and good food. Ryan always said the best hockey stories happened around kitchen tables."

Dad nodded. "Sounds like he was a wise man."

"He was two years younger than me and twice as smart," Affection blended with grief in his low tone. "Kept me honest."

Mom reached for Carver's hand. "It's important to have people looking out for you. Good influences. People who care about more than just your performance."

Dad nodded. "That's what we've always told Matsson. Find people who see you as more than just what you can do for them. Matsson's lucky to have you in his corner. Not every young player gets that kind of mentorship."

"I'm lucky to have him, too." Carver's comment made my heart flutter. "He's taught me as much as I've taught him."

As we finished our meal and waited for dessert, Mom reached across the table to squeeze my hand.

"We're proud of you." Her voice was suddenly thick with emotion. "I know we don't say it enough, but we are. You've grown into such a fine young man."

"Thanks, Mom."

"We just want you to be happy. That's all we've ever wanted. For you to find your place in the world and be happy."

I stared at our joined hands, fighting the sudden burn behind my eyes.

I managed to squeeze out, "I am happy." It was true. Complicated, terrifying, and uncertain, but true.

"Good. That's all that matters."

When I looked up, Carver watched me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition. He knew exactly what those words meant to me and why they mattered so much.

For the first time all evening, I allowed myself to imagine what it might be like if they knew the truth. If I could tell them that yes, I was happy, and here was the reason why sitting right across from them, charming them with stories about hockey and making them laugh with his dry humor.

When we returned to my apartment, my parents didn't stick around. They were on their way to do sightseeing in Boston and Vermont.

The apartment felt strangely quiet after hours of conversation and laughter. Carver shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on a hook by the door. I kicked off my shoes and sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted.

Carver sat beside me. "That went well. Your parents are good people."

"They liked you." I turned to study his profile. "Really liked you. My mom's already planning their next visit."

"About the conversation..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "The stuff about my brother. I don't usually—"

"You don't have to explain." I shifted closer until our knees were almost touching. "But thank you for sharing that with them."

"He would have liked them. Ryan always said you could tell everything about someone by how they talked about their kids."

On the television, some mindless holiday special was playing—animated reindeer dancing across a snowy landscape while cheerful music swelled in the background. Neither of us really watched it, but the soft glow provided just enough light to see each other's faces.

I rubbed Carver's forearm. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Today, at dinner... when my mom said that thing about being happy. You got this look on your face. Like you understood something I didn't even know I was feeling."

He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers picking at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "My parents never said that to me. Never asked if I was happy and never seemed to think it mattered as long as I was performing."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault, but hearing your mom say it and seeing how much it meant to you, I realized what I'd missed. That was what love is supposed to look like."

Without thinking, I reached for his hand, lacing our fingers together. His skin was warm, slightly rough from years of handling hockey sticks and gym equipment.

"My parents love each other. Twenty-seven years, and they still hold hands in the car."

"I noticed." His thumb traced across my knuckles. "They love you, too. It's obvious."

"Yeah." I swallowed hard. "Which makes this harder, in some ways."

"This?"

I gestured between us with my free hand. "Hiding. Pretending you're just my mentor when you're..." I trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"When I'm what?"

"There was no reason to keep it from Carver anymore. I'd carried it around for so long it was starting to burn a hole through me.

"You're the one I—" My words faltered, so I shook my head and started again. "Every morning, before I even open my eyes, it's you. Then, at practice, sometimes I catch myself smiling like an idiot just because I remembered something you said."

I bit my lip. "And at night, when the lights are off, you're still in my head. Every damn night, whether we're together or not."

I forced myself to meet his eyes. "I don't know what that means, not fully. But I think… I think it means I'm falling for you."

His fingers tightened around mine.

I rushed on, afraid I'd lose the nerve. "I know it's complicated. I know there are rules and lines and everything in between, and I know this isn't easy for either of us. Still, sitting there today, watching my parentslikeyou, and realizing they could… theycouldknow you—really know you—and maybe still love me just the same…"

My throat closed. I coughed and tried again. 'I want that. Not now. Not tomorrow. But someday. I want them to know. I want everyone to know.'

He didn't say anything; he just looked at me like he saw through every layer I'd ever tried to keep hidden.

'You're not just a mentor or a teammate. You're not just a friend. You're… shit, Carver, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And yeah, maybe that's a cliché, but I don't care. It's the truth.'"

The silence that followed was complete except for the soft sounds from the television and the distant hum of traffic outside. Carver stared at me, his thumb still moving in gentle circles across my skin.

For a terrifying moment, I thought I'd said too much and crossed a line we couldn't uncross. Then his free hand came up to cup my face, fingers warm against my jaw.

The words continued to tumble out. "I think I want the whole world to know, and not because I need validation or because I want to make some grand statement. But because hiding this feels like lying about the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Someday," Carver said, his voice rough with emotion.

It wasn't a promise exactly, but it wasn't a rejection either. It was acknowledgment, possibility, and hope wrapped in a single word.

"Someday," I agreed.

We stayed on the couch like that for a long time, hands clasped, while animated characters celebrated the holiday on the screen. The fear wasn't gone—might never be completely gone—but something steadier was growing in its place.

Something that felt like courage.

When Carver finally kissed me, it was soft and slow.

"Your parents really did like me," he murmured against my lips.

"They loved you," I corrected. "Just like I do."