Page 19

Chapter nineteen

Carver

T he tunnel at Augusta Memorial Arena reeked of stale beer and decades-old sweat. It made my stomach churn more than usual.

I pressed my shoulder against the cinder block wall and watched my teammates file past toward the ice—TJ adjusting his helmet strap for the third time and Mercier muttering what sounded like prayers or curses under his breath.

Through the gap between bodies, I glimpsed Pike warming up. He moved with that fluid precision that made everything look effortless. When he fired a shot that rang off the crossbar with a metallic clang, a cluster of Augusta fans pressed against the glass applauded.

The kid had that effect on people. Made them believers.

I experienced a swell of pride as I watched him move around the rink. He'd absorbed everything I'd taught him about reading defensive gaps, and he turned awkward early drills into poetry on ice. Still, underneath that pride lurked something uglier.

Fear.

Augusta had a reputation. They loaded their roster with players who'd never sniff the NHL but could deliver hits that ended careers. Guys like Tommy Kozlov, their left winger, collected concussions like trading cards and wore each suspension like a badge of honor.

Pike glided past our bench during his next lap. He caught my eye through the glass and flashed that sunshine smile. I set my jaw.

Don't get hurt, kid. Not tonight. Not ever.

I pushed off the wall and began pacing, my skate guards clicking against the concrete in an agitated rhythm. Coach MacPherson appeared at my elbow, clipboard tucked under one arm. "Are you planning to wear a trench in the floor?"

"Just getting loose." I flexed my fingers inside my gloves, trying to work out the tension that had settled there like ice.

"Uh-huh. Pike looks good out there. Sharp. Confident."

"Yeah." My voice was rough and edgy from the fear. "He's ready."

"Question is, are you?"

Before I could respond, the horn sounded—end of warmup. My teammates began filtering back through the tunnel, faces flushed from exertion and their conversation buzzing with pre-game energy. Pike was among the last to return, helmet tucked under his arm.

"How's the ice?" I asked as he passed.

"Fast. Clean." He paused, studying my face. "You okay? You look like you're about to spontaneously combust."

"I'm fine."

"You're not getting it past me." He spoke quietly, meant only for me. "What's got you wound up?"

I glanced around the tunnel, making sure we weren't overheard. "Augusta plays dirty. Watch your back out there."

"Always do."

"No, Pike. I mean it." I stepped closer. "These guys will try to hurt you. They see talent and want to break it."

"I can handle myself."

"I know you can. That doesn't mean I won't worry."

"Then I guess I better not give you anything to worry about."

The second period unfolded like a chess match played at breakneck speed. Augusta came out swinging after intermission; their forecheck was more aggressive, and their hits landed with the kind of force that rattled teeth. I'd already taken two solid checks that left my shoulder singing, but Pike was untouchable—dancing between defenders like smoke and making plays that had the scattered Lewiston fans in the stands jumping to their feet.

Thirteen minutes in, he picked up a loose puck at our blue line. It caught the Augusta defense in transition, gaps opening like fault lines in their coverage.

Pike accelerated.

What followed next was a slow-motion train wreck that I could not stop. Pike committed to the outside lane, head up, stick protecting the puck with casual confidence.

Tommy Kozlov materialized from his blind side like a heat-seeking missile.

The hit arrived with the sound of thunder—shoulder to chest, perfectly timed to catch Pike mid-stride with his head down. The impact lifted him off his skates and sent him crashing into the boards with a sickening thud that echoed through the arena.

Augusta fans roared their approval while our scattered fans screamed for a penalty. All I heard was silence—the terrible, empty quiet that follows when someone you care about goes down hard.

Pike lay crumpled against the boards, motionless.

I was off the bench before conscious thought kicked in, one skate already on the ice when Coach's voice cut through the chaos.

"CARVER!"

I froze, balanced between the bench and the ice, every muscle in my body screaming to move. I wanted to get to Pike and make Kozlov pay for what he'd done.

On the ice, Pike stirred. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees, helmet twisted but still conscious. Relief flooded through my system.

Our eyes met. He was pale and shaken but alert as the trainers crowded around him.

What I saw was understanding in his expression. He knew I wanted to tear Kozlov's head off.

And he trusted me not to.

I forced myself to step back and sit on the bench; hands clenched so tight around my stick that the tape started to tear under my gloves. The rage was still there, pulsing like a second heartbeat, but self-control rose to meet it, fueled by the knowledge that Pike needed me to be better than my impulses.

The referee's arm shot up, whistle shrieking through the arena. Kozlov raised his hands in mock innocence, skating backward toward his bench.

"Charging, number twenty-seven, Augusta," the ref announced over the PA. "Five-minute major."

Kozlov skated to the penalty box like he was taking a victory lap, tapping his stick against the glass where Augusta fans pressed their faces. The bastard enjoyed every second.

Pike accepted help from our trainers, skating slowly toward the bench with one hand pressed to his ribs. When he collapsed onto the seat beside me, I heard a sharp intake of breath that told me he was hurting more than he'd let on.

I whispered, "You good?"

"Been better." He pulled off his helmet, revealing a cut above his left eyebrow that would need attention. "But yeah. I'm good."

Coach leaned over from behind us. "Pike, you're done for the period. Get looked at."

"Coach, I can—"

"No arguments. Carver, you're up next shift."

As Pike stood to follow the trainer down the tunnel, he paused beside me. He briefly gripped my shoulder.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For staying."

At the end of the second period, I sat in my stall in the locker room, methodically retaping my stick while conversations swirled around me. The usual post-period analysis mixed with something sharper and more personal.

"Did you see Carver when Pike went down?" Monroe's voice carried from across the room. "Thought he was gonna launch himself over the boards like a fucking missile."

TJ grinned. "Would've paid money to see that. Kozlov would've needed a stretcher."

"And Carver would've needed a lawyer." Mercier's goalie pragmatism came through loud and clear. "Smart play, staying put."

I kept my head down. The kind of praise lobbed in my direction was still relatively unfamiliar. For most of my career, restraint hadn't been my strong suit. I was the guy who collected penalties like souvenirs.

"Serious growth there." Lambert, a veteran defenseman in his fifth season with the team, sat beside me. "Takes balls to hold back when someone lights up your linemate like that."

Before I could respond, our head trainer pushed through the crowd with Pike in tow. The kid's face was flushed, and a butterfly bandage covered the cut above his eyebrow, but he also flashed a smile like he'd just scored a hat trick.

"Cleared for the third," he announced. A chorus of relieved cheers and stick taps rang through the locker room.

"How's the ribs?" I asked.

"Sore as hell, but nothing's broken." He pulled a fresh jersey over his head, wincing slightly as the fabric stretched across his torso. "Doc says I'm lucky Kozlov caught me square. If I'd been turning, it could've been a lot worse."

"Lucky." The word tasted bitter in my mouth. "Right."

Coach entered, clipboard in hand. "Gentlemen, we're up two-one, but that doesn't mean shit if we come out flat in the third. Augusta's gonna push. They'll try to goad us into retaliation and taking stupid penalties."

He fixed his gaze on me. "We don't take the bait. We'll play our game and stay disciplined. Follow Carver's lead."

The words hit like a shot to the chest. My lead? I was the guy with the notoriously short fuse.

"Carver showed us something out there," Coach continued. "Showed us what it looks like to put the team first when everything in your body is screaming to do something else."

Every head in the room turned toward me. I wasn't used to respectful attention. I'd come to expect the eye-rolls that followed another unnecessary penalty.

TJ spoke up. "That's captain shit, Carver."

The words nearly knocked the breath from my lungs. Captain shit. Coach had instituted a rotating Captain system since Dane got called up the season before. I never considered myself in the running.

Mercier added his voice. "Agreed. Been saying it all season—Carver's the guy we look to when things get ugly." He pushed up his goalie mask to reveal a rare smile.

Before I could process the wave of positive sounds and stick taps, Pike stood. "He's right. What Carver did out there wasn't about being soft or backing down. It was about knowing what mattered more than his feelings. That's the kind of leader this team needs."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group. For the first time in my six seasons with the Forge, I felt like more than a role player filling space between the real stars.

Coach clapped his hands, breaking the spell. "Alright, enough group therapy. The third period starts in three minutes. Pike, Monroe, Jameson—you're line one. Carver, be ready. Let's finish this thing."

As the room emptied toward the tunnel, Pike stepped to my side. "You okay?"

I nodded. "Processing. Not used to being called leadership material."

"Get used to it. Some of us have been waiting for you to figure it out."

We won 3-2, grinding out the kind of ugly victory that felt more satisfying than any blowout. I sat in my stall, slowly working through my post-game routine.

Around me, my teammates celebrated in their own ways. TJ was already on his phone, probably texting some girl about his assist on the game-winner. Mercier methodically cleaned his mask, the way he did after every game, win or lose. Monroe sprawled across the bench, still catching his breath from a shift that had left him gasping.

Pike emerged from the trainer's room, freshly showered and changed into street clothes. The butterfly bandage above his eyebrow had been replaced with a smaller strip, barely visible unless you knew to look for it. He moved carefully, favoring his left side where Kozlov's shoulder had found its mark.

"Clean bill of health?"

"More or less." He began packing his gear with methodical precision, the way he did everything. "Doc wants me to ice the ribs tonight, but nothing's broken or displaced."

"Good." I turned back to my skates, working at laces that had somehow tangled themselves into an impossible knot. "Scared the shit out of me when you went down."

"Yeah, well, welcome to my world every time you drop the gloves."

From across the room, Sanders—the rookie defenseman—snorted. "Speaking of dropping gloves, what was that about, Carver? Thought you were gonna hop the boards and murder Kozlov right there on the ice."

The comment was casual, meant as ribbing, but something in his tone rubbed me wrong. There was an edge to it, suggesting that my restraint had been weakness rather than strength.

"Probably should have," Sanders continued, pulling on a clean shirt. "A guy like that needs to know he can't just run our skill players without consequences."

I felt my jaw tighten. "Like Coach said, the game was more important than my ego."

"Sure, but—"

Pike's voice cut through the conversation. "But nothing. You don't get to talk about him like that."

Sanders blinked, caught off guard. "I wasn't—I mean, I was just saying—"

"You were just running your mouth about something you don't understand." Pike took a step forward. "Carver's more than just a linemate, and he made the right call out there. The smart call. It was the kind of call that wins games instead of losing them to stupid penalties."

The locker room was silent. Everyone paused to listen.

"You think fighting Kozlov would've helped me? Would've made my ribs feel better or gotten me back on the ice faster?" Pike's gaze pinned Sanders to the wall. "Or would it have put our best penalty killer in the box for five minutes while Augusta scored twice on the power play?"

Sanders opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. No sound emerged.

"That's what I thought." Pike shouldered his bag. "Carver's got more hockey sense in his pinky finger than you've got in your entire body. Show some fucking respect."

Everyone stared at Pike, stunned by the ferocity of his defense. He was Mr. Sunshine 99.5% of the time, but he'd stepped between me and criticism like a bodyguard protecting his principal.

In six seasons with the Forge, I'd fought my own battles, deflected my own criticism, and built my own reputation through force and sarcasm. Nobody had ever defended me like that. Nobody had ever thought I was worth protecting.

TJ was the first to break the silence, letting out a low whistle. "Well, damn. Sunshine's got claws."

Looking around, I realized our secret wasn't a secret anymore. Not entirely. Our teammates understood now, even if they couldn't cite a specific definition. Pike and I were something more than mentor and student.

And the world didn't end.

The locker room had mostly emptied by the time I finished my post-game routine. A few stragglers remained—Mercier organized his goalie gear with obsessive precision.

I sat on the bench in front of my stall, working at the knots in my skate laces with fingers that felt clumsy and thick. The adrenaline from the game was finally wearing off, leaving behind a familiar ache in my shoulders and the more profound exhaustion from playing with every nerve on high alert.

Pike appeared at the edge of my vision, moving quietly across the concrete floor. He'd changed into dark jeans and a faded Minnesota Gophers sweatshirt, his gear bag slung over one shoulder. He settled onto the bench beside me.

"Need help with those?" He nodded toward my skates, where I still wrestled with laces that seemed determined to stay knotted. Without waiting for a response, Pike reached over and began working at the knot with steady patience.

"You scared the shit out of me tonight," he said quietly. "When Kozlov hit me, I mean. Not the hit itself—I've taken worse—but watching you almost come over the boards like that."

I studied his profile as he concentrated on my skate.

"Thought you were gonna lose it completely," he continued. "And then you didn't. You... stopped. Stepped back. I've never seen anything like it."

"Didn't feel like stopping. Every instinct I had was screaming to get out there and tear his fucking head off."

"But you didn't." The knot finally yielded to Pike's persistence. "You stayed on the bench because that's what the team needed. That's what I needed."

Mercier finally finished his rituals and headed for the door. We were alone except for the distant sound of Augusta's maintenance staff beginning cleanup.

"I saw you hold back," Pike said. "I know what that cost you."

"You were worth it."

Pike rested his hand on my knee. It wasn't sexual. It was a simple connection acknowledging what we'd been through earlier in the night.

He spoke softly. "Thank you for defending me out there without throwing a punch. For showing me what real strength looks like."

"And thank you for what you did with Sanders. Nobody's ever..."

"Nobody's ever what?"

"Had my back like that. Not in a locker room, anyway."

Pike smiled. Mr. Sunshine had returned. "Better get used to it." He squeezed my knee. "We should probably get out of here before security comes looking."

"Yeah." I bent to finish removing my skates. "Pike?"

"Yeah?"

"What you said to Sanders... about us being something more than linemates. The whole room heard it."

"I know."

"You okay with that? With them knowing?"

He looked at me. "Are you?"

I thought about it. The idea of the team knowing should have terrified me. Instead, all I felt was relief. I was relieved at not having to pretend anymore and not having to maintain careful distance or hide the way Pike had become vital to me.

"Yeah, I think I am."

"Good."

As we stepped into the cold night air, Pike bumped his shoulder gently into mine.

"So," he said, "Captain Carver, huh?"

I snorted. "Don't start."

"Too late. I'm already picturing the speech. You'll grunt twice and threaten to punch someone, and the team'll eat it up."

I smiled despite myself.

I was no longer walking out of arenas alone. And maybe I never would again.