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Chapter twenty-one

Carver

T he locker room should have been empty on Tuesday morning at eleven-thirty on a game day. Instead, I found Pike wearing a new, black winter coat, standing between the equipment racks with his phone pressed against his ear.

His free hand gestured wildly while he paced three steps toward the showers, pivot, and three steps back toward the exit. He was all restless energy and barely contained electricity.

I dropped my gear bag beside my stall. Pike's head snapped toward me, eyes wide and slightly glassy. He mumbled something into the phone and ended the call.

"You're early." I settled onto the bench. "Way early. The on-ice warmup isn't for five hours."

"I know." He resumed pacing. "I couldn't sleep. I wished you were with me because I couldn't sit still. Kevin, my agent, called and—" Words failed him in the middle of a sentence.

I looked up at him. "Talk to me."

He stopped pacing and turned to face me. "They're having me skip rookie camp. Straight to the show. Syracuse needs bodies now. I'll be on the plane tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Not July. Not after months of preparation and long goodbyes. Tomorrow, as in twenty-four hours from now.

I stared at him. He was the kid who took over my final season and rearranged every assumption I'd made about endings. He waited for my reaction like a defendant awaiting a verdict.

A wave of fierce satisfaction in a job well done hit me first and nearly knocked me sideways. Of course, they were skipping camp. It made perfect sense that they wanted him now before some other team realized what Syracuse had in their back pocket.

Next was the realization that it was all happening now—today.

"Fuck, Pike." I managed to keep my voice steady. "That's... that's incredible."

"Is it?" He resumed packing. "I feel like I might throw up. Or pass out. Or both simultaneously."

"It's exactly what should happen." So far, I meant everything I said. "You've earned it. Syracuse knows talent when they see it."

It was what I'd wanted for him. Every drill we ran and every adjustment I suggested had been building toward this moment.

He sat beside me, our thighs touching. I gripped his knee without conscious thought. He turned to look at me. "We should tell the team before it leaks."

He was right. The news would be out in the media in a matter of hours.

Mercier and TJ arrived together and headed to the equipment room first. I looked at Pike. "It won't get any easier."

"Will you—?"

"Yeah. I'll be there."

We entered the equipment room, hearing the pair bantering about the latest stick technology. Pike called, "Mercier, TJ, got a minute?"

The conversation stopped. TJ dropped his voice low. "Are we planning a coup?"

Pike didn't hesitate. "I got called up. This isn't rookie camp. It's tomorrow with Syracuse."

TJ's mouth dropped open, then stretched into a grin so wide it threatened to split his face in half. "Holy shit, Pike! Are you serious?"

Mercier's reaction was quieter but no less profound. He stepped forward to clap Pike on the shoulder firmly. "You earned it. Go show them what we taught you."

The we was unexpected. Not what I taught you or what Carver taught you. What we taught you. Like Pike belonged to all of us, this makeshift hockey family.

TJ launched himself forward, wrapping Pike in one of his signature enthusiasm-fueled embraces. "About damn time, golden boy. I was starting to think Syracuse's scouts were legally blind."

He pulled back, hands on Pike's shoulders, then executed some complicated fist-bump sequence that involved at least three directional changes and ended with jazz hands. Pike laughed. It was a good break and the first genuine smile I'd seen on his face all day.

TJ turned toward me, extending the fist-bump ritual in my direction. "Carver, you must be bursting with pride. Your little mentee's all grown up."

I accepted the ridiculous handshake and allowed TJ's infectious joy to crack through some of my trepidation about the future. "He did the work. I only pointed him in the right direction."

TJ sat on an overturned equipment crate. "So, I guess this means I need a new excuse for my shit passing. Can't blame you for not being where I expected anymore."

"Your passing was shit before Pike got here," I pointed out.

"Details." TJ waved dismissively. "The important thing is, I had a scapegoat. Now, I'll have to take responsibility for my failures. It's very inconvenient."

Pike laughed again. He needed some levity. Mercier retrieved his mask from a shelf, signaling the end of our impromptu gathering. "When do you fly out?"

"Tomorrow morning. Early."

"Then we better make tonight count," TJ said. "Post-game at the Icehouse? Celebration drinks? I'm buying the first round in honor of our newly minted NHL prospect."

Pike glanced at me. I nodded slightly. He needed to enjoy it and be twenty-three and invincible for one more night.

He changed his mind. "I think I'll have to take a rain check. I've got calls to make, and I need to pack. Parents and probably at least a dozen others need to hear this before it hits the internet. I can do a lot of them this afternoon, but I don't know what to take with me."

TJ stood, brushing invisible dust from his jeans. "Fair enough. But when you score your first goal up there, you owe me a beer."

"Deal."

As we filed back into the main locker room, I caught Mercier's arm. "Thanks for how you handled that."

He studied me with his perceptive goalie gaze. "The kid's got good instincts. He'll be fine. You, on the other hand..."

"I'm okay."

"Sure you are. Just remember—letting go doesn't mean losing. Sometimes, it means trusting what you've built to last."

The team set up a pre-game presser to announce Pike's good fortune. I was asked to appear for moral support. I positioned myself against the back wall, arms crossed, watching the controlled chaos unfold.

Pike sat behind a small table draped in Forge colors, hands folded atop a stack of press releases that somebody from the front office had prepared in record time. He wore his good suit—navy blue, sharp-shouldered. It was one his parents bought him to celebrate his first professional season. The Syracuse jacket draped across his shoulders looked foreign as if he were trying on an alternate identity.

Camera flashes popped rapidly, each burst illuminating Pike's face in stark relief. He'd mastered the art of the media smile—polished, confident, hiding the nerves I knew were churning beneath his composed exterior.

"Matsson, how does it feel to bypass rookie camp entirely?" The question came from Janet Morrison, the Lewiston Sun-Journal's sports reporter. She'd covered the Forge for fifteen years and had probably written more words about my penalty minutes than I cared to contemplate.

Pike leaned into the microphone, voice steady. "It's incredible, obviously. An honor. Syracuse has been watching our team all season, and I'm grateful they see potential in what we've built here."

Behind the cameras, our teammates had gathered in a loose semicircle—TJ bounced on his toes like an excited poodle. At the same time, Mercier appointed himself the sergeant-at-arms with his arms crossed. Monroe and Lambert whispered back and forth about whether they'd get called up next.

It felt like family. Messy, chaotic, fiercely protective family watching one of their own step into the larger world.

"Carver." A voice at my elbow made me turn. It was Brad Hutchins from the Portland Press Herald with his recorder already running. "Care to comment on Pike's development this season? You've been his mentor. This has to be a proud moment for you."

The room's attention shifted toward me. I cleared my throat, suddenly aware of how many microphones had materialized in my vicinity.

It was easy to spit out a few words. "Pike's got the hockey sense, work ethic, and the character for the show. Syracuse isn't taking a chance on him—they're getting exactly what they think they're getting."

"Any specific moments that stand out? Breakthrough moments in his development?"

I could have told them about the early morning sessions when Pike pushed through pain that would have sidelined lesser players. Instead, I kept it simple. "He belongs there. Always has. Just took the right opportunity for everyone else to see it."

The press conference ended with logistical questions about travel arrangements and roster moves. As the room emptied, teammates surged forward to offer final congratulations. TJ managed to work in one more elaborate handshake sequence. Mercier gripped Pike's hand briefly, whispering something that made the kid's eyes glisten.

The kid was ready. More than ready. And if that meant butterflies crowded my gut as I watched him step into his future, well—that was a small price to pay for being part of something significant.

He caught my eye again as the room cleared and mouthed a "thank you" across the diminishing crowd. I nodded once.

Tomorrow he'd be gone, but tonight, he was still ours.

The news traveled fast, and The Colisée sold out for the game. Signs dotted the stands—"Good Luck Pike!" scrawled in marker on poster board, and a few fans already wore Syracuse jerseys.

Coach gathered us at the bench before the puck drop. "Gentlemen, this is Pike's last game in this uniform. Let's make sure he remembers it."

The first period passed in a blur of controlled chaos. Pike created chances, but the puck bounced wrong, or Worcester's goalie made saves that defied physics. By the first intermission, we were down 2-1, and frustration was beginning to creep into our bench chatter.

"Relax," I told Pike as we filed toward the locker room. "Game's got sixty minutes. We're only getting started."

The second period opened with renewed intensity. Coach had shuffled the lines, putting Pike and me together with TJ, betting that our chemistry could crack Worcester's defensive shell. The gamble paid off immediately—Pike and I moved like we shared a nervous system, anticipating each other's movements.

Midway through the period, the play that would live in my memory forever began innocuously enough. Worcester dumped the puck deep into our zone, a routine clearing attempt that should have resulted in a standard defensive zone face off.

Instead, I got there first. The safe play was a quick chip around the boards to our defenseman. The smart play was a safe clear out of the zone.

But Pike was moving.

In my peripheral vision, I saw him accelerate through the neutral zone, timing his break perfectly to avoid the offside call. He read the developing play three seconds before it happened, positioning himself where logic said he shouldn't be.

I threaded the pass through a forest of legs and sticks. Three Worcester players tried to intercept it. All three were a half-step too slow.

Pike gathered the puck at full speed, one smooth motion that carried him from the red line into Worcester's zone. Their defenseman committed to the body check, exposing the net's far side. Pike could have shot.

Instead, he made a no-look pass back across the crease.

The puck arrived at my stick as I crashed the net; Worcester's goalie was still sliding across his crease, trying to follow Pike's movement. I had six inches of open net and all the time in the world to bury it.

Twenty-three hundred people rose to their feet with noise that rattled the rafters. I watched Pike's face as our teammates mobbed us. He'd set up the goal with the vision that separated good players from great ones, and he was grinning like he'd scored it himself.

TJ crashed into us, helmet knocking against helmets. Monroe and Lambert piled on from behind.

Through the chaos, I caught Coach's reaction—arms crossed, nodding once with the satisfaction of someone who'd just watched his game plan executed to perfection. If it were the last goal I ever scored in this building, I'd remember it for the pass that came before it.

The pass. Pike's pass. The trust it represented and the understanding it required. It was the perfect climax to everything we'd built together.

As we skated back to center ice for the face-off, Pike bumped my shoulder with his glove. "Nice finish, old man."

"Nice pass, kid."

From that point forward, the win seemed inevitable.

As the third period wound down with the score still tied, Pike cut across the neutral zone and drew both defensemen toward him. Without looking, he flicked the puck backward, right into my path.

I didn't think. I just ripped it.

The sound of the puck hitting the net, that sharp, glorious twang , rang through the arena like a gunshot.

Game over.

Our bench exploded. The crowd surged to its feet. All I saw was Pike, skating toward me, helmet already off, grinning like he'd just rewritten the ending of our story.

He leaped into my arms, and for a second, nothing else existed—not the scouts, the call-up, or the future—only us.

While the rest of the team filed off the ice, I grabbed Pike's wrist. "Stay behind for a minute?"

He turned toward me. "Sure."

Together, we glided to center ice.

The overhead lights had been dimmed, casting everything in shadows that softened the arena's harsh edges. I turned to face Pike, close enough to see the questions in his eyes.

"This place," I started, then paused, searching for words that could carry the weight of what I wanted to say. "This was never only a job for me. Other guys, they punched the clock and collected paychecks and moved on when something better came along."

Pike waited with patience.

"But you?" I exhaled slowly. "You changed everything. Even the way I end."

Pike's eyes opened wide. "Carver—"

"No, let me finish." I stepped closer. "I thought I knew what retirement looked like. Fading out, being forgotten, and watching from the sidelines while the game moved on without me."

I ran my fingers down from his wrist to his hand. "Instead, I got to be part of something that matters. I got to help build something that will last long after I hang up my skates." I gestured toward the empty seats and the banners hanging in the rafters. "You're taking pieces of this place with you. Pieces of all of us."

Pike nearly lost it, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. "I don't want to leave."

"I know, but you have to."

"What if I'm not ready?"

I smiled softly. "You've been ready since the day you walked into that locker room. You just needed time to grow into what you already were."

"Thank you," Pike whispered.

"For what?"

"For seeing me and believing in me before I believed in myself."

As we walked off the ice for the last time as teammates, Pike bumped my shoulder. "This isn't goodbye."

"Of course, it's not."

Pike invited me to help with the final packing. We finished around 3 AM. Cardboard boxes sat in neat stacks against one wall, labeled in his careful handwriting: "Clothes," "Books," "Kitchen Stuff."

When we finally crawled into bed together, we both lay staring at the ceiling.

"Can't sleep?" I asked.

"Brain won't shut up. What if the team chemistry is terrible? What if I can't keep up with their system? What if—"

"What if you're precisely what they need?" I propped myself up on one elbow. "What if Syracuse knows what they're doing?" I'm scared, Carver."

"Good. Fear means it matters."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"Professional and personal. Fear keeps you sharp. Complacency gets you cut."

Pike reached out for my hand. "What about us? What happens when I'm playing eighty-two games, and you're coaching twenty-three-year-olds who remind you of me at my most annoying?"

It was the question I'd been avoiding, but it was essential to address.

"I'll be in Syracuse. On the road half the time, probably sleeping in hotels that smell like industrial disinfectant and broken dreams."

"Sounds glamorous."

He continued to speak with determination. "I'm not walking away from us. I won't do that. Whatever this costs, and whatever it takes—I'm not walking away."

"Then neither am I," I said simply.

After several more silent minutes, Pike spoke up again. "Logistics. We need to figure out the actual mechanics of this."

"Logistics," Pike said finally. "We need to figure out the actual mechanics of this."

"We'll have FaceTime calls when our schedules align. Texts when they don't. I'll watch your games on whatever streaming service carries Syracuse's regional broadcasts."

He issued a warning. "I'll probably be terrible for the first month, shell-shocked and homesick and overthinking everything."

"I'll remind you to breathe. And eat. And that Lewiston's still here when you need it."

Pike rolled onto his side to face me fully. "What about visits? Syracuse isn't exactly around the corner, but it's not impossible either."

"Six-hour drive. I could manage that on weekends when our schedules line up. Coaching comes with more flexibility than playing, too. We'll make geography work."

Pike's eyes opened wide. "You'd do that? Drive six hours to watch me probably ride the bench for sixty minutes?"

I brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead, "I'd drive to Buffalo to watch you practice if that's what it took."

"What about the off-season? Assuming I don't get sent back down to the minors in disgrace."

"You won't."

"But if—"

"You won't," I repeated firmly. "But hypothetically, if Syracuse decides they're run by idiots and release the best prospect they've had in years, Lewiston will welcome you back with open arms."

"And you'll be here. Coaching."

"I'll be here. Coaching young players who'll probably never be half as good as you were at their age."

Pike laughed. "You'll make them better. Just like you made me better."

"We'll figure it out." I meant it. "Day by day, game by game. No grand promises, just... persistence."

"Persistence. I like that. It's better than promises. They assume you know what's coming. Persistence just means you're willing to keep trying."

We finally fell asleep that way—no grand gestures or desperate clutching at moments we knew were finite. Just his hand in mine and the steady rhythm of breathing that had become as familiar as my own heartbeat.

And for the first time in forever, I wasn't scared of tomorrow.