Page 2

Chapter two

Pike

M y alarm jarred me awake at 5:17 AM, three minutes before I'd set it to go off. I'd barely slept anyway—drifting in and out of consciousness, my mind replaying Coach MacPherson's words on a loop: mentorship program, NHL scouts, expectations .

The pre-dawn darkness still lay heavy over my apartment. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, testing my knee before putting weight on it. It had a dull throb but was manageable—better than the day before.

Outside my kitchen window, the streetlights cast amber pools of light across the empty parking lot, and snow dusted the pavement. Winter in Maine started early and lingered late.

My apartment occupied the second floor of a converted Victorian on Lewiston's east side—one of those buildings with good bones but questionable renovations. High ceilings and original hardwood floors contrasted with kitchen cabinets from a 1990s big-box store and windows that rattled whenever the wind blew from the north.

I'd made halfhearted attempts at personalization. A framed photo of my family at Lake Winnipesaukee sat on the mantel of a non-functional fireplace. My University of Minnesota hockey jersey hung in a shadow box my mother shipped to me, and a vintage Lewiston Forge pennant from the team's 1987 championship season—a flea market find—adorned the wall above my television.

Still, most surfaces remained empty and the walls bare. The place had the unsettled quality of a way station rather than a home.

As coffee brewed, I caught my reflection in the window above the kitchen sink. I looked younger than twenty-three—something about my eyes, maybe, or how I'd never quite grown into the angular jawline that had suddenly appeared when I was sixteen. "NHL material," scouts had started whispering last season, but the face looking back at me still looked like someone playing at adulthood and professionalism.

Standing at the kitchen counter, I ate breakfast and scrolled through my phone. A text from my mother—just a heart emoji, her daily check-in. An email from my agent with another potential endorsement opportunity from a local car dealership. A notification from the Forge's fan page announcing ticket packages for the upcoming home stretch.

For the first time since the injury, I felt something like anticipation rather than dread. Whatever happened on the ice with Carver—however much my inexperience and his criticism stung—at least it would be movement. Forward motion. Something other than the holding pattern of rehab and uncertainty that had defined my summer.

I locked the door behind me, tested the handle twice, and headed for the stairs, each step measured and intentional. Control what you can control. It was what my first coach had taught me and what had carried me from Minnesota high school hockey to the Forge.

The drive to the Colisée took less than ten minutes. I was early. The parking lot was empty save for a maintenance truck, its exhaust puffing out lazy clouds in the cold.

I let myself in through the players' entrance using my access card. Familiar smells washed over me—the sharp bite of refrigeration mixed with decades of sweat and gear.

Even empty hockey rinks were never truly silent. The building hummed with the constant work of keeping the ice frozen—compressors cycling, pipes creaking, and the distant hiss of dehumidifiers.

When I hit the switch, the locker room lights flickered on with an industrial buzz. Empty stalls lined the walls, and nameplates indicated their owners. I occupied a space between Mercier and TJ, separated from the rowdier end where Carver's stall commanded its corner.

Last season, Dane told me TJ had taped his Wayne Gretzky quote—"You miss 100% of the shots you don't take"—inside his stall the day he arrived three seasons ago. Mercier, by contrast, kept his area pristine except for a single photograph of his daughter, positioned so only he could see it during equipment changes.

I'd watched Holt Carver play since I was seventeen—following his career through highlight reels and game footage, studying how he created space in the corners where none should exist. By my first year with the Forge, I'd built him into something more than a teammate. He was a standard against which to measure myself.

As I pulled out my skates, I remembered his words from a practice session last season:

"If you're not paying attention to the details, you're not playing hockey—you're only skating around looking pretty in expensive equipment."

It wasn't addressed to me specifically, but the words defined him for me. Carver was brutally honest, unapologetically direct, and usually right.

What if I couldn't keep up? What if this mentorship confirmed what had worried me since July—that my breakthrough season had been a fluke, and the injury was the universe's way of restoring natural order?

The heavy clank of the arena door interrupted my spiral. I turned quickly to see him standing in the doorway. Carver wore faded jeans and a threadbare Lewiston Forge hoodie. He clutched a thermos clutched in one hand. Beneath disheveled hair, his expression was unreadable.

His face wasn't conventionally handsome. It told a different story—a weather map of experience, all hard angles and history. His nose had been broken at least twice, that I could tell. A thin scar bisected his left eyebrow, permanently interrupting the dark arch.

His eyes held my attention. Dark brown, nearly black in certain light. When he fixed that gaze on you during practice, it stripped away pretense and performance.

"Morning, sunshine." His voice was gravelly like he'd just rolled out of bed. "You're early. Did you catch the worm?"

I straightened, trying to appear more at ease than I felt. "Figured I'd get warmed up."

Carver grunted and dropped his bag onto the bench near his stall. "Smart. How's the knee?"

"Good. Fine."

"Try again." He didn't look up as he began unpacking his gear.

I exhaled slowly. "Stiff. It's better once I start moving around."

He nodded once. "Lesson number one—never bullshit me."

The arena opened before us—vast, quiet, and pristine. The empty space magnified every sound: the creak of the boards, whispers of blades against fresh ice, and the percussive tapping of Carver's stick.

"Edges first," he called, gliding backward with deceptive ease. "Let's see what you're working with."

The command was simple enough. Edge work formed the foundation of everything—the alphabet before you formed words. I pushed off, starting with the inside edges, tracing careful arcs from blue line to blue line. The left side felt clean and responsive. The right side made me hesitate, muscles tensing in anticipation of pain.

"Tighter." Carver barked instructions. "Game speed."

I dug deeper on the next pass, forcing myself into sharper turns. My breath fogged in the cold air as I concentrated on maintaining form. Inside edges, outside edges, crossovers, transition turns—the progression moved through a sequence every hockey player knew by heart.

After my third circuit, Carver's voice cut across the ice. "Stop compensating."

I pulled up short, spraying ice. "I'm not—"

"You are." He skated closer to me. "Every defenseman with half a brain will see that hitch and force you right until that knee buckles completely."

Something in his tone pushed me beyond caution. I launched into the following sequence with deliberate force, driving harder into each turn. My knee screamed in protest, but I gritted through it, focusing on proving him wrong rather than protecting myself.

"Better, but still not great."

While executing Carver's puck work drill, I initiated a cutback, and my right blade caught unexpectedly. My weight shifted awkwardly, the puck skittered away, and I barely caught myself before stumbling.

Carver growled. "Jesus Christ, try not to look like a deer on rollerblades next time."

I gritted my teeth and executed the drill four more times. Each attempt was smoother than the last until I projected confidence I hadn't felt since last season.

Through it all, Carver offered nothing resembling praise—only short corrections and minor adjustments. "Not bad," he finally said, retrieving the puck. "You followed instructions well."

A ridiculous surge of pride rose in my chest. "I meant what I said yesterday. I've been watching you since juniors."

"Don't turn it into a hero worship thing. I'm not that guy."

We worked through the remaining pucks. Carver studied me with a penetrating gaze. "Your problem isn't technical skill. It's decision-making under pressure. You panic, get pretty, and forget the fundamentals."

I opened my mouth to object, then closed it. He wasn't entirely wrong. When plays broke down, I sometimes resorted to flashier moves rather than simple solutions.

He pushed me until I was panting for breath. "Break time. Put some ice on it. Not terrible for a first session."

While we skated toward the locker room, I looked at him with new eyes. He read the game like it was a language he'd grown up speaking while I was still sounding out the syllables.

Most of the team wouldn't arrive for another twenty minutes, leaving Carver and me alone in the weight room. I put ice on the knee and willed it to heal faster. Across the room, Carver made notes on the clipboard Coach gave him.

He broke the silence. "Your functional movement is better than I expected, but you're still compensating."

I nodded. "Better than you expected isn't exactly high praise."

The weight room door swung open as two athletic trainers entered, carrying their morning coffee and conversing about someone's fantasy football lineup. Their presence shifted the atmosphere, introducing an audience to our previously private exchange.

With the trainers fully concentrating on their conversation, I asked a question. "Why do you think Coach paired us? Is it just the difference in experience?"

"Partly." Carver took a long drink from a water bottle. "Mostly, he thinks you need someone who'll call you on your bullshit."

I bristled. "I don't—"

"Everyone has bullshit, Pike. Especially guys coming off breakout seasons with scouts circling." His tone was matter-of-fact. "Success messes with your head faster than failure. It makes you think you've got everything figured out."

The assessment hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. In my rookie season, I'd started to believe my own press—the local articles, attention from fans, and the whispers about NHL potential. When Dane finally got called up, and I remained in Lewiston, it was a bitter pill. Then, I got hurt.

"I don't think I have it figured out." My voice was soft. "Not anymore."

"Good. That's a start." He studied me for a moment. "You know, most rookies with your skills wouldn't waste time studying a grinder like me."

"You're not just a grinder." The words tumbled out, bypassing any filters. "You create opportunities nobody else sees. That corner play against Hartford last season? When you drew three defenders and still managed to feed Leo for the game-winner? That wasn't only physical. That showed smarts."

"One good play doesn't make me Gretzky."

I continued. "It's not only one play. It's how you read defensive structures, how you—"

"Enough." He cut me off. "Save the analysis for someone who needs the ego boost."

"Fine. I'll find someone else to compliment. Maybe Mercier needs to hear about his glove-side reflexes."

"Christ," Carver muttered. "Don't. His helmet already barely fits his head."

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it, and Carver's mouth twitched—almost a smile.

The team practice that followed our early session had a different energy. It was the controlled chaos of twenty players sharing the same space, with Coach barking instructions and his whistle punctuating drills. I settled into the rhythm easily, feeling renewed confidence from my one-on-one time with Carver.

Coach pulled me to the side. "Whatever Carver showed you, keep doing it."

Throughout practice, Carver maintained his typical on-ice persona—vocal, demanding, and occasionally profane. He called out lazy backchecks and half-hearted forechecks with equal vigor, holding everyone to the standard he set with his effort.

By the time Coach blew the final whistle, my legs burned pleasantly, and my knee ached but held steady. The session had been my best since returning from injury—not quite pre-accident form, but closer than I'd been for weeks.

"Good work with Pike," Coach said to Carver as we headed to the locker room. I slowed, within earshot.

"Only doing what you asked, Coach."

"No, you're doing more than I asked. The question is why." Something knowing in Coach's tone made me hurry past, suddenly feeling like I'd intruded on something private.

I lingered in the locker room longer than usual, taking time with my cool-down stretches. My normal routine was efficient—practice, shower, protein shake, and out the door. Today, something anchored me in the space, reluctant to break the morning's mood.

Across the room, Carver had already peeled off most of his gear. Unlike some of the younger guys who treated equipment like disposable accessories, Carver handled his gear with practiced care—preserving what he could save, discarding only what was truly spent.

Without consciously intending to, I found my gaze drawn to him. Stripped of pads and practice jersey, his upper body told the story of a hockey career. A network of scars mapped encounters with sticks, pucks, and boards—some had faded to white lines, while others still carried the angry pink of newer damage. A particularly vivid scar curved along his left shoulder blade and disappeared down his back.

He glanced up suddenly, catching me watching. Something flickered in his eyes. For a heartbeat, neither of us looked away.

My pulse quickened unexpectedly. Heat crawled up my neck, and I dropped my gaze, suddenly fascinated by the laces of my shoes.

What was that?

I'd watched countless teammates before—studying techniques and observing routines. This was different. My stomach twisted with an unfamiliar tension.

The unfamiliar awareness wasn't entirely new. I remembered a moment last February—post-game celebrations after Carver's overtime winner against Providence. Amid the locker room chaos was Carver, quietly rewrapping tape around a damaged knuckle while others celebrated around him.

His isolation within the collective joy struck me. The strange pull I'd felt toward him then had been easier to categorize as simple respect.

It's just admiration, I told myself firmly. Professional admiration. It was the natural reaction to someone whose career you've followed.

"Earth to Pike." Mercier's voice cut through my thoughts. The goalie stood nearby, the equipment bag slung over his shoulder. "You planning to grow roots in that stall?"

I blinked, realizing most of the team had already filtered out. "Finishing up."

"Must have been some session with Carver this morning. You looked different out there. More balanced."

"He showed me a few new tricks."

"Huh." Mercier tilted his head slightly. "Wouldn't have pegged him for the teaching type."

"He's got a good eye for mechanics."

Mercier glanced across the room where Carver was now pulling a faded Forge t-shirt over his head. "Carver's got more hockey sense than he lets on; just buries it under that running mouth."

TJ approached from the showers, towel wrapped around his waist, hair still dripping. "Are we talking about the Carver Redemption Tour? I've got money on him making you cry by Friday, Pike."

I raked my fingers through my hair. "Your confidence is touching."

TJ grinned. "Seriously though, you did look better out there today. Whatever the old man's teaching, it's working."

"He's thirty, not sixty."

"Hockey years are like dog years." TJ pulled on a worn Forge t-shirt with the sleeves cut off to showcase the elaborate tribal tattoo covering his right shoulder—the product of his "poor decisions and good tequila" during his first professional season. "By that math, Carver's about 210."

Mercier shook his head. "You understand that puts you at around 175, yes?"

"But I wear it better," TJ shot back without missing a beat.

"The delusions of youth." Mercier sighed, turning toward me.

He patted my shoulder. I nodded and watched them leave. They headed for the exit together, their familiar banter continuing down the hallway. Carver moved toward the shower area, a towel draped over one shoulder.

The flutter returned, stronger this time. I turned away, quickly gathering my things.

As I headed for the exit, a quiet uncertainty took root. Admiration didn't usually feel like this—it didn't usually create an unexplained tension. I told myself it was only professional interest, the natural respect for a veteran player with hard-earned knowledge.

Whatever it was, I didn't have a name for it yet. And maybe that was for the best.