Page 3

Chapter three

Carver

I arrived at the Colisée three hours before puck drop, though I'd never admit to anyone I was that eager for opening day. The security guard hardly glanced up as I passed.

"Bit early, Carver."

"Your observation skills are why they pay you the big bucks, Phil."

He snorted, returning to his crossword puzzle. "Mercier's already here. Meditating or some shit."

"Of course, he is. Probably communing with his glove hand."

I pushed through the double doors into the locker room. I traced my fingers along the row of dented stall nameplates—mine had a jagged scratch across the middle, courtesy of a stick-throwing tantrum after our playoff elimination last year. Coach had threatened to make me pay for a new one. I'd told him to bill me and add it to my tab of fucks not given.

The room smelled exactly like it always did—liniment, old sweat, and rubber. I spotted Mercier in the corner, eyes closed, headphones in place. His lips moved in silent counts—visualizing saves, no doubt. I'd once replaced his pre-game playlist with a loop of "Baby Shark." He didn't speak to me for two weeks.

"Morning, Zen master," I called. "The spirits say we're winning by three today."

He didn't open his eyes. "The spirits say you're still an asshole."

The door swung open again, and Pike entered. He nodded at me, then started what looked like a pre-established routine: five steps to the whiteboard, pivot, seven steps back to his stall, repeat.

"Christ, are you measuring the room for curtains? Sit down before you wear a trench in the floor."

I startled him. "What? Oh. My… pre-game routine."

"Pacing like a nervous father isn't a routine. It's a cry for help."

Mercier opened one eye. "Leave the kid alone, Carver."

"I'm mentoring, not terrorizing. There's a difference."

The room gradually filled with noise and bodies. Pike continued pacing, his jaw working silently.

I wandered over to Mercier, who'd removed his headphones. "Kid's burning nervous energy like a goddamn bonfire."

"Opening night jitters. Not everyone has your ice-in-the-veins approach."

"Ice in my veins? I hit defrost this morning."

Pike completed three more circuits before I'd had enough. "Pike! Pacing won't change the game. Stick to your habits. Breathe like it's just practice."

He halted mid-stride, swallowing hard. "Right."

"And for fuck's sake, sit down. You're making me tired just watching you."

He finally broke his pacing and sat, unwrapping fresh tape for his stick. "I watched film last night."

"Which means?"

"They make quick decisions. Maybe too fast because the first option isn't always best."

"Look at you, learning words and everything." I tossed him an extra roll of tape. "Their goalie goes down early on his blocker side. Remember that when you're overthinking your shot placement and missing the net entirely."

One of the rookies—Sanders or Samuelson, I couldn't remember which—laughed nervously.

"Something funny, new guy?" I fixed him with a stare.

"No, just—"

"Spit it out. We're all friends here. Except TJ. Nobody likes TJ."

"Hey!" TJ raised his voice in protest.

The rookie straightened. "Just thought it was funny how you always have something to say about everyone's game."

"When you've been here five seasons, you notice things. Like how you're gripping your stick like it's trying to escape. Loosen up before you snap it in half and have to explain to Coach why you need new equipment before the season officially starts."

The kid flushed but adjusted his grip. Small victories.

Coach MacPherson entered without fanfare, clipboard tucked under one arm. "Providence thinks they're taking a win tonight." His voice was gravelly. "Our job is disappointment. Clear eyes, quick transitions. They're bigger, but we're faster. Pike, Carver—you're starting with TJ. Make it count."

My eyebrows rose. "Starting line? Coach, did you mix up your meds again?"

"If I wanted stand-up comedy, Carver, I'd tune into your post-game interviews. Focus on what matters."

I caught Pike watching me, a mixture of amusement and uncertainty on his face. "What?"

"Just trying to remember whether you talk this much during games, too."

"Depends on who's listening. Ready for your big moment, sunshine?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Remember to breathe. And try not to throw up on the ice. Zamboni guy hates that."

The game unfolded in its familiar symphony of sound and motion. Skate blades carved crescents into fresh ice, sending up delicate sprays.

I slid in next to TJ on my first shift back to the bench. "Their defense is slower than my grandmother, and she's been dead ten years."

"You think you could maybe call for a pass once in a while? Some of us like assists in our stat column."

"Can't hear you over the sound of your fancy footwork."

Coach leaned over from behind, his voice cutting through our banter. "Less comedy, more backchecking."

As the game unfolded, I realized something new had entered my field of awareness. I watched Pike with the focused attention I usually reserved for opposing defensemen. Each stride, turn, and battle along the boards—I studied it all. The injury didn't seem to hamper him, but there was a caution in certain movements, a calculation that hadn't been there last season.

"Pike!" I shouted with five minutes left in the second period. "Stop telegraphing your crossovers! Their winger has you figured out. Mix it up."

He nodded, face flushed from exertion. "Got it."

"And for Christ's sake, lead with your left shoulder when you go to the corner. They're looking to put you through the boards."

Mercier leaned over as he skated by my side. "Look at you, all mentor-like. It's almost heartwarming."

"Shut up and focus on stopping pucks. Your five-hole's big enough to drive the Zamboni through."

"Love you too, Carver."

Seconds later, we gained possession in the neutral zone. Pike accelerated up the left wing, exactly where I'd advised earlier—a seam behind Providence's second-line winger. The defenseman committed early, lunging toward Pike with an outstretched stick.

His execution was perfect—weight shift, shoulders faking one way, stick handling the puck through the narrow gap I'd pointed out. Two quick strides put him in the high slot with space. He released a slap shot in one fluid motion that caught the goalie sliding left while the puck went right.

The goal horn blared as the puck hit twine.

Our bench erupted, sticks hammering against the boards.

"That's what I'm talking about!" I hollered over the noise. "See what happens when you listen to me?"

Pike spun in a tight circle, arms raised, face transformed with pure, unfiltered joy. Not the manufactured celebration you see in highlight reels, but something raw and real—like he'd forgotten anyone was watching. His teammates converged on him, gloves slapping his helmet in celebration, but he looked directly at me for a moment before they reached him.

He had a flushed face, eyes bright with adrenaline, grinning so wide it looked like his cheeks might crack from the strain. There was something so damn authentic about his celebration, so unlike the polished interviews or the careful way he managed himself around the team. This was Pike stripped down his essence—a kid who'd just done what he'd dreamed of doing.

That smile hit like a fucking freight train.

We were up 2-1 as the third period began. Providence had a size advantage but seemed thrown by our pace.

"Carver, what are you seeing out there?" Coach asked, surprisingly deferring to me in front of the team.

I straightened, suddenly aware of all eyes on me. "Their defense is gassed. They can't handle sustained pressure. We keep rolling lines, and they'll crack more in the third."

Coach echoed my observations. "Keep the pressure. They're getting frustrated. Make them chase. Pike, Carver—good chemistry out there. Keep finding each other."

Eight minutes in, Pike made a clean pass at the blue line, head up, textbook form. What he didn't see was their defenseman—Novak, number 44—lining him up from the blind side.

The hit was borderline late. Open ice. Shoulder driving through Pike's chest. It was the kind of collision that shows up on highlight reels or disciplinary review videos, depending on your perspective.

Pike went down hard.

My reaction was instant and visceral. Before I could think anything over, I was across the ice, gloves dropped, shoving Novak with enough force to send him stumbling backward.

I snarled at him. "The fuck was that? You looking for a problem? I'm your fucking solution."

Officials converged, whistles blaring. Linesmen inserted themselves between us as Novak grinned, muttering something in Czech that didn't need translation to understand its contempt.

"Say it in English if you want your teeth to stay in your head." I strained against the linesman's grip.

Coach joined the group. "Carver! Enough!"

As the ref escorted me towards the penalty box, I glanced back to where Pike was pushing himself up to his knees, waving off the trainer who had started onto the ice. Our eyes met briefly. He nodded once—I'm okay—but the tight lines around his mouth told a different story.

Two minutes for roughing felt like twenty. I sat in the penalty box, a fish tank of shame, watching Providence's power play unfold with the detached analysis of someone who'd seen it all before. Their patterns were predictable—overload the strong side, look for the seam pass, collapse on rebounds. Mercier turned away two decent chances, and our penalty kill unit successfully cleared the zone three times.

When I finally escaped the box, the game was intense. Providence's forechecking pressure increased, forcing us into defensive zone turnovers. Coach relied more heavily on experienced lines.

Pike slid onto the bench beside me, breathing hard. His cheeks were flushed, sweat dampening the hair visible beneath his helmet.

"Sorry about the penalty," I muttered as we waited for the whistle.

He glanced at me, surprise on his face. "Why? Guy had it coming."

"Still put the team down a man."

"We killed it." There was something almost like a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Besides, now they're thinking twice about hitting me."

The shift passed without incident, both teams locking down defensively as the clock wound down. The final horn sounded with us ahead 2-1. A one-goal victory felt more satisfying than it should have.

I snagged Pike on our way to the locker room, pulling him aside in the tunnel. The joy of victory was painted across his face, but I noticed slight stiffness in his movement.

"Ice that shoulder." I kept my voice low. "Right away. Don't wait for interviews."

"It's fine. Just a stinger."

"Sure it is. And I'm running for Miss Maine. Ice. It. Now."

He raised an eyebrow. "You'd look great in a tiara."

"I'd be fucking majestic. Go."

The locker room was already a riot of celebration when we entered—music pumping from TJ's speaker at eardrum-rupturing levels, guys shouting over each other about key plays, and the sweet release of tension that came with the season's first victory.

"Icehouse?" TJ called across the room. He directed his question to everyone and no one in particular.

A chorus of "Yeahs" rose. The Icehouse was our local watering hole—divey enough to feel authentic but clean enough that management didn't worry about health code violations. After home wins, it transformed into an unofficial extension of the arena, packed with fans and players alike.

I hadn't planned on going. My couch and a heating pad had featured prominently in my post-game imagination, but then Pike looked over.

"You coming, Carver?"

"No" was suddenly the wrong answer. "What, miss the opportunity to watch TJ strike out with the bartender again? Wouldn't dream of it."

TJ clapped his hands together. "It's a Hockey Night miracle! Carver's joining the living!"

***

Ninety minutes later, I threw open the front door of The Icehouse. Warmth, noise, and the mingled scents of beer and deep fryer oil hit me immediately. Hockey memorabilia covered every available wall space, from faded jerseys in frames to signed pucks in plastic cases. The Forge featured prominently, of course, but there were nods to the Bruins, the old Nordiques, and even a dusty Whalers pennant tucked in one corner.

Dex, the bartender, called out my arrival. "Holy shit, it's the ghost of Carver past. Someone check whether hell's frozen over."

"Your concern for my social calendar is touching. How are the alimony payments, Dex? The fourth wife leave you with anything besides that vintage haircut?"

"Third wife, you jackass. And she didn't take the bar, so I count it as a win." He slid a glass of bourbon my way without being asked. "First one's on the house. For your heroic defense of the golden boy."

I raised an eyebrow. "News travels fast."

"Small town, big hit. Plus, it's already on some hockey highlights account." Dex wiped the counter. "You went full Papa Bear out there."

I corrected him. "Mentor Bear. It's a designated role."

Across the room, my teammates had claimed their usual territory—a collection of scarred wooden tables pushed together near the back. Pike sat with TJ and Mercier, beer in hand, apparently deep in some animated discussion.

"Carver!" TJ's voice cut across the bar noise. "Stop being antisocial and bring your old bones over here!"

Several patrons turned to look. Subtle as a freight train, that one.

"I'm good right here. I'm watching you make a fool of yourself from a safe distance."

Pike added his voice. "At least join us for a toast!"

With an exaggerated sigh, I pushed off the bar stool, bourbon in hand, and crossed to their table.

"To Pike's first goal of the season," TJ declared, raising his beer. "May there be many more, preferably assisted by yours truly."

"To Pike," the group echoed, glasses clinking.

Pike had to add his bit. "And to Carver, for the advice that made it happen."

Attention shifted to me. "Jesus, don't make it weird. I only pointed out the obvious. You did the work."

Conversation began to flow around me. I contributed the occasional barb or observation, but I mostly watched the dynamics unfold. The rookies clustered together, still finding their place. Veterans held court in their established territories. Pike moved easily between groups. Mr. Sunshine was comfortable everywhere.

Pike planted himself on a stool beside me. "The boys are talking about karaoke. Mercier does a surprisingly good Bon Jovi when properly motivated."

"I'm not doing karaoke or wearing funny hats. Or clapping on beat. Or participating in any team-building activity that involves public humiliation."

"You're not even old, but you're already a grump."

"Grump beats golden retriever energy every time." It was a barbed comment, but my voice had little edge.

Pike shifted on his stool, and I saw a brief wince.

"How's the shoulder?"

"It's fine."

"Bullshit."

Pike adjusted his answer. "It's hockey-fine. Nothing broken or torn. Only the latest addition to the collection." He rolled the shoulder as if to demonstrate, but the movement was tentative, carefully controlled.

"Ice it tonight. Anti-inflammatories. Sleep on your other side."

"Yes, Coach."

I ignored the poke. "And for fuck's sake, don't tell me you're fine when you're not. Do you think I can't spot a player hiding pain? I've been doing it professionally for a decade."

He lowered his voice. "I didn't want to seem weak. Not after—"

"After your knee? Kid, there's a difference between playing through pain and being stupid. One of my jobs is figuring out which one you're doing at any given moment."

TJ approached. His shambling walk suggested he was a beer or two ahead of Pike. "Karaoke time! Both of you, no excuses. Pike, you promised to do 'Sweet Caroline' after your next goal."

"I absolutely did not."

"Memory's fuzzy, but I'm certain you did." TJ turned to me. "Carver, what's your go-to song? Wait, let me guess—something dark and brooding. Johnny Cash? Nine Inch Nails?"

"My go-to is leaving before you put my name on a list."

TJ clutched his chest dramatically. "You wound me. I'm only trying to build team morale."

"You're trying to embarrass rookies and get footage for blackmail."

"Those goals aren't mutually exclusive." TJ grinned, then caught sight of someone across the room. "Gotta run—Mercier's about to be convinced he can do the splits."

As TJ departed, Pike turned to me with an amused expression. "You really hate team bonding that much?"

"I don't hate it. I'm just selective about my participation."

"And this?" He gestured between us. "Is this participation?"

The question caught me off-guard. I stared at my half-empty glass, suddenly aware of how unusual this was—me, socializing, having an actual conversation with a teammate that wasn't about line changes or defensive coverage.

"This is..." I searched for the right words. "This is mentorship. Professional development."

"Right. Professional." He drained the last of his beer and stood, wincing again as the movement pulled at bruised muscles. "Better get back before they volunteer me for something worse than karaoke."

He laughed as he walked away—light, easy, perfect, like everything was fine, and I didn't feel something in my gut when I thought he was hurt. And damn it, I didn't know what that something was.

I finished my bourbon, left cash under the glass for Dex, and headed for the door. Mercier intercepted me halfway there.

"Leaving so soon? They're about to start karaoke."

"Which explains my sudden urgency. Some of us value our eardrums."

"Suit yourself." He studied me with that goalie's gaze—too perceptive for comfort. "You did good with Pike today."

"Only doing what Coach assigned." I shifted my weight, suddenly aware I was mimicking Pike's nervous stance from earlier. I stopped immediately.

"Don't give me that shit. I've seen you do what Coach assigns." He tilted his head. "This was different."

"Different, how?"

"For one, you're listening to him. For another—" Mercier paused, choosing his words carefully. "—you went after Novak like he'd insulted your mother, not your mentee."

"It was a late hit."

"It was a hockey hit. You've seen worse. Hell, you've delivered worse." A knowing smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Come on, Carver. We've been teammates for what, three seasons now? I can read you better than most."

Heat rose on the back of my neck. "There's nothing to read."

"If you say so." He shrugged, but I hadn't convinced him. "It's an observation. Goalies notice things. Patterns. Changes." He tapped his temple. "Comes with the position."

"You analyzing everyone, or am I special?"

"Everyone. Force of habit, but you've been different since Coach paired you with Pike. More... engaged."

I scoffed. "That your professional diagnosis?"

He clapped my shoulder. "It's okay to care, you know. Won't kill your reputation as team grump."

"I'll keep that in mind when planning my personal rebrand." I stepped around him, needing to escape before he read something else in my expression. "Don't let TJ try that table-dancing stunt again. Workers' comp doesn't cover stupidity-induced injuries."

Mercier chuckled. "Drive safe, Carver."

"Always do."

I pushed through the door, but Mercier's observations followed me into the night. If he'd noticed something, who else had? And what exactly had he seen?

Outside, the cold Maine air washed away the warm haze of the bar. My truck started on the second try. I considered that a win.

As I drove home through Lewiston's quiet streets, Pike's question echoed. Is this participation?

I didn't have an answer. Not yet.