Page 4

Chapter four

Pike

T he team exited the rink after practice, exhausted but satisfied, equipment bags slung over shoulders and voices bouncing off the concrete walls. TJ led the charge, proclaiming his domination of the final drill.

I hung back, taking longer than necessary to gather my equipment. The trainers hovered near the exit, clipboards in hand, as they performed cursory check-ins.

"Pike, need anything before you head out?"

"I'm good." The half-truth slipped from my tongue with ease. "Just going to work on some edge drills before I leave."

"Don't overdo it. We've got Providence again tomorrow."

"Twenty minutes, tops." That wasn't entirely true either. I'd decided to stay until my knee either improved or gave out completely.

The locker room door swung shut behind the last staff member, leaving me alone on the ice. With everyone gone, I finally allowed myself to acknowledge what I'd been hiding all practice: my knee had worsened overnight.

The pain lingered deeper than before—not the sharp, clean agony of a fresh injury, but something more ominous. It was a persistent throb that radiated outward every time I turned.

I gritted my teeth and pushed onto the ice anyway.

I carefully set up a row of pucks along the blue line, working through edge transitions. Each turn sent tremors through my leg. I ignored them.

Five more minutes and the pain would recede. It always did, eventually, once the muscles warmed fully.

Except this time, it didn't.

After the tenth repetition, I paused, resting my weight on my left leg while the right throbbed in protest. Sweat beaded along my hairline despite the chill radiating off the ice.

I whispered to no one, "It's fine. I just need to work through it."

I gathered more pucks, setting them up for quick-release wrist shots. The mechanics of the drill required weight transfer that sent shockwaves through my damaged knee, but I pushed onward.

Every puck that hit the back of the net validated my decision to stay. Every miss fueled my determination to continue.

"Your follow-through looks like you're swinging a baseball bat, not a hockey stick."

The voice materialized from nowhere, startling me so completely that I nearly toppled mid-shot. My puck sailed wide, clattering harmlessly into the corner boards.

Carver stood at the entrance to the bench area, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He'd changed out of his practice gear into worn jeans and a navy henley that had seen better days. His hair was still damp from the showers, pushed back haphazardly from his forehead.

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Fuck, make some noise next time."

"I did. You were too busy grimacing through whatever that was supposed to be." He gestured toward my stance. "You call that a shot?"

I straightened, instinctively shifting weight away from my right leg. "What are you doing back here? Thought you'd be halfway to the Icehouse by now."

"Forgot my phone." He patted his pocket as evidence, though something in his expression suggested that was his little white lie. "The better question is why you're still here torturing that knee."

"Just getting some extra work in."

"Extra work." He repeated the words and pushed off from the doorframe. "That what we're calling self-destruction these days?"

I collected another puck. "It's fine. I'm just—"

"Favoring that knee like it's royalty." Carver stepped onto the ice in his boots. He moved with surprising confidence despite lacking skates. "You think I can't see it from across the rink?"

I opened my mouth to argue, but the words dissolved as he drew closer. I noticed something in his expression—genuine concern.

His voice was surprisingly low and gentle. "How bad is it?"

I'd prepared for mockery or frustration and armored myself against his typical barbs. His uncharacteristic naked concern left me momentarily defenseless.

"It's nothing." I inhaled sharply, hearing the lie echo in the arena.

Carver raised an eyebrow. "Try again."

I offered a reluctant admission. "It's just different today. Like, a little deeper."

"Different, how?"

I searched for words to describe the sensation. "Not sharp. It's more like pressure. Like something's caught beneath the kneecap."

"And your brilliant solution was to keep putting weight on it for another hour?"

"I need to strengthen—"

Carver cut me off. "You need not to be an idiot. You can't strengthen an injury by aggravating it."

We stared at each other, and I drummed the fingers of my right hand against my stick.

"C'mere." He gestured toward the bench. "Let me see what you've done to yourself."

"It's really not necessary." It was a weak protest. I glided toward the bench, and my knee pulsed with each push of my right blade.

"Sit." Carver's voice was soft but firm.

I eased myself down. Usually crowded with teammates, equipment, and nervous energy, the bench was strangely intimate with only the two of us.

Carver knelt in front of me. It surprised me so much that I pulled back momentarily. After looking me in the eye, he reached toward my right leg.

"May I?"

The question was so considerate, so unlike Carver's reputation. I nodded.

He rolled up the leg of my practice pants, exposing the compression sleeve beneath. After he peeled down the neoprene, my knee appeared swollen, the skin faintly pink around the kneecap.

"You weren't kidding about working through it."

His hands moved with the same precision he used to tape his stick before games as he tested for swelling. I held my breath, hyperaware of each point of contact between us.

"Tender here?" He pressed lightly at the inside edge of the joint.

I winced. "Yeah."

"Here?"

"Not as much."

His brow furrowed as he continued his examination. I studied his face as he worked, seeing new details I'd never noticed. He had faint scar tissue just above his left eyebrow where it had been split open in a game, and his eyelashes were surprisingly long.

He glanced up. "When did it start feeling different?"

"This morning. I woke up, and it felt wrong."

"Wrong, how?" He rubbed small circles around my kneecap with his thumbs.

"Like pressure building. Not really pain, but..." I tried to find the right words. "Like something trying to push out from inside."

He nodded. "Fluid. The joint's retaining fluid. You should've iced this an hour ago." His voice continued to be low and gentle, not accusatory.

"I didn't want anyone to ask questions." It was a sudden moment of truth for me.

"Yeah, well, I am." He shook his head. "And you need to start giving better answers."

I swallowed. "Like what?"

"Like ones that don't end with you washing out of hockey at twenty-three. Some things matter more than looking invincible."

Carver rested his fingers at the edge of my kneecap, no longer probing. "Why are you hiding this?"

His face was so close to mine. There was no way I could hide the truth any longer. The words suddenly spilled out. "Because I can't afford to be the guy who got hurt and never returned. Because one good season doesn't guarantee anything. Because I need to prove I belong here."

He blinked and then glanced down at my knee again. "You won't belong anywhere if you destroy this joint."

The gentle connection lasted a few seconds longer, and then Carver cleared his throat and pulled his hand away. He stood upright. It was like cold air had suddenly rushed in between us.

"You need to ice it properly and give it actual rest. Can the masochistic bullshit you were doing out here."

The gentleness was gone as he crossed his arms over his chest. I rolled the compression sleeve back down. "I know how to treat an injury."

"That's why you were out here making it worse."

He strode off the ice, and I followed. He led me to the trainer's room and grabbed an ice pack and medical tape. He gave me instructions as he shoved them into my hands. "Twenty minutes on. Twenty minutes off. Elevate and take anti-inflammatories when it hurts. And stay off the damn thing until the pre-game skate tomorrow."

I nodded. "Thanks."

Carver shrugged. "Don't thank me. I'm only doing what the team's paying me for."

Something about the comment stung. I found my way to a bench in the locker room and began taping the ice pack to my knee. "Right. The mentorship thing."

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he watched. "Yep, just doing my job."

After a few awkward, silent moments, Carver backed toward the exit. "Make sure you head home soon and elevate that."

My voice sounded soft and weak. "Yeah. I will."

Then, he was gone, footsteps echoing down the concrete corridor until the heavy exit door clanged shut behind him. I remained seated for several minutes, replaying the interaction in my mind.

Coach's words from our first meeting echoed in my mind. "You need someone who won't blow sunshine up your ass. He needs a legacy that matters."

Was that all that was happening? Was it only a veteran player fulfilling his assignment and ensuring his mentee didn't destroy himself before the season got fully underway?

It didn't feel that simple.

And that realization disturbed me more than my knee pain.

I'd dated Amanda for a year in college and Kelsey for three years in high school. I'd never questioned the straightforward clarity of those attractions—comfortable, expected, uncomplicated. Even when they ended, there was no confusion.

This—whatever had just happened with Carver's hands on my knee and his eyes meeting mine—was unmapped territory. It wasn't admiration or respect or even friendship, at least not what I'd experienced from any teammate before.

I mumbled out loud. "This isn't happening." My racing pulse suggested otherwise.

The drive home stretched longer than usual, each stoplight offering another opportunity to replay Carver's touch in my mind. I caught myself running my fingers over the same spot on my knee where his had been as if checking for some tangible evidence of whatever had passed between us.

When I returned home, my apartment greeted me with familiar shadows and silence. I dropped my equipment bag by the door, not bothering with my usual routine of unpacking and hanging gear to dry. Instead, I headed straight for the couch, propping my leg on a stack of pillows before replacing the mostly melted ice pack with a fresh one from my freezer.

I reached for the remote and flicked on the television, hoping for distraction. I stopped briefly at a hockey game—Bruins vs. Canadiens—but couldn't focus. Instead, I finally found a cooking competition show and silently entertained my cock-eyed dream of being a chef after hockey.

When the show ended, my thoughts circled back to Carver. What exactly had happened between us?

Professional concern was too simple of an explanation to accept. I'd seen trainers check injuries dozens of times—clinical, detached, efficient. What happened with Carver was different.

I whispered to myself. "It's only gratitude. Someone finally noticed."

That didn't entirely explain the gentle tone of his voice. It didn't account for how the shade of color in his eyes seared its way into my memory. I closed my eyes and tried to make sense of the confusion.

Before the encounter after practice, I'd understood my feelings about Carver in straightforward terms: respect for his experience, appreciation for his hockey intelligence, and occasional frustration with his abrasiveness. It was a simple, uncomplicated, professional relationship.

Now, it was different. It was like skating onto a patch of ice with invisible cracks beneath the surface. The ground I'd always trusted suddenly was dangerous and unpredictable.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table—a text from my mother, her nightly check-in disguised as casual conversation. I responded with reassurances about my health and well-being, carefully omitting any mention of knee pain or confusion about teammates.

Carver was right. The elevation and ice chased the pain away. I got up and shuffled to my kitchen, assembling a protein-heavy meal from pre-prepped containers in my refrigerator. While waiting for the microwave, I saw Carver's face in my mind: concerned, caring, and something else I hadn't put my finger on.

What did he see when he looked at me? A troubled rookie? A mentorship obligation? Something else entirely?

As midnight approached, I finally dragged myself to bed, arranging pillows to elevate my knee. On the edge of sleep, my mind conjured up one final image: Carver's brow furrowed in concentration while his fingers carefully moved across my injury.

It followed me into dreams with questions I couldn't answer and feelings I couldn't name.

Yet.