Page 5

Chapter five

Carver

T he bus engine died with a wheeze as we pulled into the Holiday Inn Express parking lot. I'd spent the four-hour drive to Hartford with my headphones blasting Springsteen, pretending to sleep so no one would talk to me. My lower back ached from the bus seat's lackluster support—another reminder that recovery took longer these days.

Coach MacPherson stood at the front, voice cutting through the post-ride haze. "Twenty-six hours, gentlemen. One game, one purpose. Save the tourism for retirement."

I stretched, vertebrae popping in sequence. Three weeks into the mentorship program, I'd settled into a rhythm with Pike. On ice: professional, focused. Off ice: careful distance, minimal interaction. It was a system that worked.

Assistant Coach Landon appeared with a stack of key cards in paper sleeves. "Room assignments at the front."

I shouldered my bag and joined the shuffling line. When my turn came, he handed me a sleeve with "Room 312" scrawled on it. "You're rooming with Pike."

"What? I always room alone." It was one of the few perks I got as the longest-serving player on the team. The solo room came my way when Dane got kicked up to the show.

Landon replied in a business monotone. "Coach's orders. It's part of the mentorship integration."

"Integration? We're mentoring, not merging bank accounts."

Mercier brushed past, catching the tail end of the conversation. "Try not to murder the golden boy in his sleep. We need him functioning tomorrow."

"No promises." I pocketed the key card and headed for the hotel lobby.

Pike stood by the elevators, back straight as always. As I approached, he tracked my movement with careful attention.

I mashed the elevator call button. "Let me guess. You're a morning shower singer and sleep with seventeen pillows."

"Only sixteen." That sunshiny smile lit up his face. "Had to leave one at home."

My mouth twitched involuntarily. The kid could be funny when he wasn't trying to impress everyone.

He walked half a step behind me as we approached the room, right at my shoulder. I muttered under my breath. "This wasn't my idea."

"I figured. I can ask to switch if it's a problem."

"And tell Coach what? That you're scared I'll corrupt your innocent routines?" I waved the card key over the lock. "We're adults. We can handle one night."

"Dibs." Pike dropped his backpack on the bed nearest the door. I always preferred that one when I had to share—easier for middle-of-the-night bathroom trips—but it wasn't a disagreement hill I was willing to die on.

"Fine." I strolled to the windows and stared at a gorgeous parking lot view.

Kicking off my shoes, I sprawled on my bed and watched him unpack. He didn't toss things around like a normal person. He actually unpacked his backpack.

Pike carefully placed a monogrammed Dopp kit on the corner of the dresser. He arranged his socks and underwear in a drawer like they were display items at a fancy department store.

"What is this? Are you planning on moving in?"

Pink crept up the back of his neck. "My mom was a flight attendant. She taught me how to pack and make things comfortable in a hotel."

I shook my head. "Mine taught me how to swear in three languages, so I guess we all have our skills." I rummaged through my chaotic bag, pulling out a faded Rage Against the Machine t-shirt and basketball shorts that had seen better days. "I'm grabbing a shower."

When I emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, I had one towel around my waist and another over my shoulders. Pike sat on his bed, phone in hand. His eyes widened, and he looked down at my chest for a moment before thinking better of it.

"Forgot my underwear." I snatched shorts from my pack and returned to the bathroom.

After I settled on my bed, Pike headed into the steamy bathroom for his shower. I flipped on the TV and tried to ignore the sound of running water. It brought to mind an image of a naked Pike.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I'd seen him in all states of partial dress and undress in the locker room. Why was the idea of him showering fifteen feet away from me making me… uncomfortable?

The bathroom door opened, releasing a cloud of steam scented with pine and something fresher—peppermint, maybe. Pike emerged in flannel sleep pants and a Forge t-shirt that clung slightly to his still-damp shoulders. His hair was darker when wet, curling slightly at the temples.

I'dseenahundredguysinahundredlockerroomshalf-naked,butsomethingaboutPikesteppingoutofsteam—flushed,damp,softattheedges—mademythroattighteninawayIdidn'twanttothink too much about.

He placed his toiletry bag precisely on the corner of the dresser, movements deliberate and measured.

When he settled onto his bed, he pulled his hands up behind his head. "So, Carver, any unique pre-game rituals I should know about?"

"Nothing weird. Left skate before right. Same underwear if we're on a streak."

"That's disgusting."

"That's hockey." I turned my head to stare at him. "You're telling me you don't have any superstitions? Mr. Sunshine has to have something."

"I count ceiling tiles. Always do it before I sleep in a new place."

"Seriously?"

"It started when I was a kid. Dad's job had us moving every few years. I had new ceilings above my bed all the time. Counting them helped somehow."

"How many in here?"

He glanced up. "Thirty-six visible from this angle. Probably forty-eight total."

"Huh." I turned back to the TV, uncomfortable with the warm sensation that filled my chest. "My old man's idea of settling in was finding the nearest bar. At least yours taught you math."

I yawned, the day's travel catching up with me. "Should probably turn in. Early skate tomorrow."

"Yeah." Pike reached for the lamp between our beds. "Need anything before I kill the lights?"

I was already turning away, pulling covers up to my shoulder. "Only silence and darkness, Sunshine. Some of us need our beauty sleep."

Morning arrived too soon. I woke to the gentle vibration of my phone alarm, catching it before the sound could fully engage. Pike was still asleep, curled slightly toward me, one arm tucked beneath his pillow.

I slipped out of bed and into the bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face and stared at my reflection. Dark circles shadowed my eyes—evidence of too much awareness of Pike to get a good night's sleep.

By the time I emerged, he was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed.

My voice was still slightly rough from sleep. "Breakfast downstairs in twenty. Team meeting at nine."

"Got it." He smiled faintly. "Sleep okay?"

"Like the dead," I lied. "You?"

"Not bad. Counted those tiles three times, though."

I dressed quickly and headed downstairs alone, leaving Pike to his morning routine. The hotel restaurant buzzed with other players and a handful of business travelers. I filled a plate with eggs and bacon, doctored the watery coffee with enough cream to make it palatable, and joined Mercier at a corner table.

"How's cohabitation with the golden boy?"

"Exciting as watching paint dry." I shoved a forkful of eggs into my mouth. "Kid folds his underwear."

"The horror." Mercier's eyes crinkled at the corners. "And yet, you survived."

"Barely."

The team meeting passed in a blur of strategy talk and video clips. Coach drilled us on Hartford's penalty-kill tendencies and their top line's habits. Pike sat near the front, focused entirely on the presentation, occasionally making notes in his small notebook.

After lunch, we returned to the hotel. It gave us a few hours of free time before a bus ride back to the arena. Pike sat cross-legged on his bed, methodically taping a stick. His fingers moved efficiently, wrapping the black tape in perfect, overlapping spirals. What caught me off-guard was the quiet humming that accompanied his work.

"You always hum like that?"

He looked up, startled. "Was I? Sorry."

"Didn't say stop. Only asked if it's a regular thing."

"Oh. Mom says I've done it since I was a kid. Usually don't notice I'm doing it."

"What's the song?"

"Nothing specific. I guess whatever's in my head." He resumed his taping, and the humming was quieter, more self-conscious.

I pulled my worn copy of The Old Man and the Sea from my bag—a superstition I'd never admitted to anyone. Before every away game, I read the same five pages. It wasn't for luck, exactly, but for perspective. For the reminder that persistence mattered more than perfection.

"Hemingway?" Pike's voice interrupted my ritual.

I glanced up, already feeling defensive. "What about it?"

"Nothing. Just wouldn't have pegged you for a classics guy."

"As opposed to what?"

"I don't know. True crime? Motorcycle magazines?" His sunshiny smile defused any ill feelings on my part. "What else do you read?"

It was a casual question, but it felt significant—like Pike was genuinely interested in the answer.

"Depends." I closed the book, my thumb holding the place. "Fantasy sometimes. History. Whatever doesn't feel like work."

"Any recommendations? I finished my last book on the bus ride."

I considered for a moment. "You read The Art of Fielding ?"

"The baseball novel? No, but I've heard of it."

"It's not really about baseball. It's about... I don't know, pressure. Expectations. What happens when your body betrays what your mind knows you can do." I stopped, suddenly wary of revealing too much through my reading choices.

"That's what I need right now." Pike's phone chimed, and he glanced down at the screen. Whatever he saw there transformed his expression—tension melting away, replaced by a spontaneous, unguarded laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"My sister." He turned the phone, showing me a photo of a toddler covered head-to-toe in what appeared to be spaghetti sauce. "My nephew's first attempt at self-feeding. She says now she understands why our mom always made us eat in the backyard."

At that moment, the sunlight from the window caught in his hair, turning it from blond to gold. At that moment, with his guard completely dropped, he was breathtaking—and the thought hit me with such force that I physically recoiled from it.

"You okay?"

I stood abruptly. "Fine. Leg cramp."

I headed for the bathroom and leaned against the door, breathing deeply. What the hell was happening to me? This was Pike—the kid I was mentoring, a teammate, nothing more.

At the arena, the familiar pre-game chaos enveloped us—equipment managers arranging gear, trainers taping ankles and wrists, and coaches huddled over last-minute adjustments. I settled into my corner stall, methodically gearing up. Left skate first, right skate second. Shin guards secured with extra tape—a habit from juniors when cheaper equipment always threatened to shift. My shoulder pads adjusted until they sat perfectly across my back.

When the buzzer sounded, calling us to the ice for warm-ups. I waited for Pike near the tunnel.

"Ready?"

"Always."

The first period unfolded as predicted. Hartford came out throwing their weight around, finishing checks with extra emphasis, crowding our crease. We weathered the initial surge and answered with speed, transitioning quickly through the neutral zone.

Eight minutes in, Pike slipped a perfect pass between two defenders, finding TJ streaking toward the goal. The red light flashed, and we converged in celebration.

"Fucking beautiful!" I shouted above the noise, giving Pike's helmet a congratulatory smack.

He grinned, cheeks flushed with exertion and pride. "Saw you tying up that defenseman. Gave TJ all the space he needed."

As the game progressed, an increasingly desperate Hartford team started to play dirty. The refs turned their heads and swallowed their whistles, ignoring illegal checks.

Near the end of the second period, a sequence unfolded in slow motion. Pike collected a clearing attempt at our blue line, head up, reading the developing play. Sullivan, Hartford's designated enforcer, approached from his blind side, lifting slightly as he drove his shoulder.

The hit connected with Pike's upper back and sent him sprawling. His body crumpled against the boards, stick flying from his hands. The sound—that sickening crack of body meeting immovable surface—echoed through the arena.

Something in me snapped.

I was across the ice in seconds, gloves already gone. Sullivan turned just as I reached him, a smirk dying on his lips as my first punch connected with his jaw. My world narrowed to a single focus—make him pay, make him hurt, make him understand the consequences.

"You don't fucking touch him!"

Sullivan recovered enough to land a solid hit to my ribs, but adrenaline dampened the pain. I drove forward, taking us both down to the ice, landing on top with enough leverage to connect again.

Officials converged, whistles blaring. Hands grabbed at my shoulders, trying to separate us. I shook them off, landing one final shot before being forcibly dragged away.

"Five minutes for fighting, number 37!"

The penalty box door clanged shut behind me. My knuckles throbbed, blood smearing the tape where Sullivan's teeth had cut through. I gulped air, the rational part of my brain slowly reasserting control.

Across the ice, Pike was back on his feet, waving off the trainer. Our eyes met briefly—his wide with surprise. I couldn't read his expression from this distance, couldn't tell if he was angry at my intervention or grateful for it.

As I sat in the penalty box, a realization settled over me. My action wasn't about protecting a teammate. It was about Pike specifically. Something about him had burrowed under my skin, creating a connection I hadn't asked for and didn't know how to process.

Coach's hand landed heavily on my shoulder when I rejoined the bench. "Smart? No. Necessary? Maybe." He squeezed once. "Just keep your head now."

We finished the game with a 3-2 win, grinding out a late goal despite Hartford's increasingly desperate attempts to tie it up. The locker room buzzed with victory energy afterward—music blasting, guys recounting key plays, and the sweet relief of earning two points on the road.

I sat quietly in my stall, gradually working through my post-game routine. My hand throbbed where the skin had split, and my ribs protested each deep breath—souvenirs from the Sullivan encounter.

Pike appeared at my side, voice low beneath the locker room chaos. "You should get that looked at." He nodded toward my hand.

"It's fine." I continued unwrapping my shin guards, ignoring the sting.

"It's not fine. You're bleeding on your gear."

Before I could protest further, Pike was gone, returning moments later with one of the trainers. With poor grace, I submitted to the examination, wincing as antiseptic hit the open wounds.

The trainer eyed the cut closely. "Might need a stitch or two. Come with me."

Twenty minutes and three stitches later, I returned to find the locker room half-empty. Pike sat in his stall, fully dressed, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when I entered.

"Everyone else headed to the bus. I told them I'd wait for you."

"Didn't need a babysitter."

"Never said you did." He shouldered his bag. "Ready?"

I nodded, suddenly too tired to stay irritated. We walked to the bus in companionable silence, the adrenaline of victory and violence gradually giving way to the bone-deep fatigue that followed every game.

The hotel room greeted us with stale air and rumpled beds that housekeeping had straightened but not fully remade. Pike placed his bag carefully by the closet while I dropped mine unceremoniously on the floor.

I dropped onto my bed, stretching carefully to avoid aggravating my ribs. The TV remote lay on the nightstand, but I made no move to reach for it. Instead, I stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles as Pike had the night before. Thirty-six visible from my angle. The thought triggered an unexpected wave of fondness.

My phone buzzed—a text from Mercier. Mercier: Victory drinks in TJ's room. You coming?

I typed back a one-handed reply: Carver: Pass. Body feels like it went through a wood chipper. Mercier: Smart call. Tell Pike invitation extends to him too.

I turned toward Pike, who was fiddling with his phone. "Team's drinking in TJ's room. You're invited."

Pike considered for a moment and then shook his head. "Think I'll pass. Long day."

"Smart call."

He settled onto his bed, back against the headboard. "How's the hand?"

I flexed my fingers experimentally, wincing. "Functional."

"Worth it?"

The question caught me off-guard. "What?"

"The fight. Worth the pain?"

I studied him, trying to decipher the intent behind his question. "Sullivan had it coming."

"That's not what I asked."

I shifted, uncomfortable with the potential direction of the conversation. "He was targeting one of our players."

"I handled it."

"By letting him knock you into next week?"

"By not letting him get to me." There was an edge in Pike's voice I didn't recognize. "I don't need someone swooping in to defend my honor, Carver. I've dealt with assholes like Sullivan my entire career."

"So I should've just let him run you?" Defensiveness rose hot and heavy in my chest. "That hit could've ended your season."

"That's not—" Pike took a measured breath. "I'm not ungrateful. Just saying I can handle myself."

"Never said you couldn't."

"Then why did you lose it like that? That wasn't a normal response to a teammate taking a hit."

Ilookedathimtoolong.I thoughtaboutthesoundofhisbodyhittingtheboards and thehollowsilencethatfollowed.

The damn kid was onto something. What could I say? That the sight of him vulnerable had triggered something primal in me? That for a split second, I'd have gladly broken Sullivan in half if it meant erasing the sound of Pike's body hitting the boards?

I reached for the TV remote, desperate for distraction. "You analyze everything this much, or am I special?"

He ignored the question. "What are we watching?"

"Absolutely not we. You're welcome to find another viewing location."

"It's my room, too." He settled against his headboard and crossed his arms over his chest. "Besides, I'm not leaving you alone to brood and reinjure yourself trying to open a beer with your teeth or something."

I snorted. "That was one time, and I was nineteen."

"Wait, you actually—"

"Focus, Pike." I flipped through channels, landing on a rerun of some mindless action movie—all explosions and impossibly attractive people outrunning them. "This work for you?"

"Sure."

We watched in silence for several minutes. I tried to focus on the plot—something about terrorists and a rogue agent—but my attention kept drifting to Pike. He sat cross-legged on his bed, occasionally shifting position, wincing slightly when he moved too quickly.

"Your back?"

He glanced over, surprised by the question. "Just a little stiff. Nothing serious."

"Ice would help."

"Probably." He made no move to get any.

I pulled myself off my bed, ignoring protesting ribs, and grabbed the ice bucket. "I'll be right back."

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up, Pike."

When I returned, we both applied washcloths wrapped around ice to our game injuries.

"Why'd you do it?" Pike asked quietly.

I knew what he was asking but decided to play dumb. "Get ice? Because you wouldn't."

"The fight." He turned, still holding the ice pack to his shoulder. "I've seen guys take worse hits without you jumping in."

"Maybe I'm changing."

"So it was just... teammate code."

"Something like that."

Pike studied me with those too-perceptive eyes. "You're lying."

"Excuse me?"

"You're lying, or at least not telling the whole truth."

"You've got a real talent for pushing, you know that?" Irritation flared, defensive and sharp.

"And you've got a talent for deflecting."

We stared at each other across the narrow space between the beds. "Fine," I conceded. "I don't know why I reacted like that. It was... instinct."

"That's the most honest thing you've said all night."

He turned back to the TV, allowing the moment to pass without further probing.

What the hell is this feeling?

It wasn't only attraction—I'd felt that before and recognized its contours. This was something more profound, more consuming—an unexplained pull toward Pike.

The movie droned on, neither of us following the plot. Pike removed the ice pack after twenty minutes, rotating his shoulder experimentally.

"Better?" I asked.

"Yeah. Thanks."

He yawned. "I'm going to turn in."

"Go for it. I'll keep the volume low."

Twenty minutes later, I clicked off the TV, plunging the room into darkness, broken only by the digital clock's red glow. Carefully, I eased under my own covers.

The digital clock displayed 3:17 AM when I jerked awake, disoriented in the unfamiliar darkness. For a moment, I couldn't identify what had pulled me from sleep—the room was silent except for the steady hum of the heating system and the occasional distant sound of a door closing down the hallway.

Then I heard it again: a soft, distressed sound from Pike's bed.

I propped myself on one elbow, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He lay on his side, blankets twisted around his legs, one arm flung outward. He contorted his face, brows drawn together in a pained expression.

"No, please... don't..."

I sat up fully, uncertain of what to do. Every instinct urged intervention, but waking someone from a nightmare sometimes left them more disoriented than the dream itself.

I whispered his name. "Pike?"

He didn't respond.

"Stop," he mumbled, head turning restlessly on the pillow. "Can't... I can't..."

The raw distress in his voice broke something in me. I pushed back my covers and crossed the narrow space between our beds, careful movements in the darkness. Up close, I saw a sheen of sweat on his forehead and the rapid flutter of his eyelids.

I tried again. "Pike. Matsson. Wake up."

Nothing.

He suddenly thrashed and then tensed before his eyes flew open. For a moment, he stared at me without recognition, pupils dilated in the darkness.

"It's okay." I kept my voice low and steady. "You were having a nightmare."

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking almost embarrassed. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

"It's fine. Sounded rough. You okay?"

He ran a hand over his face. "Yeah. A dream."

"Some dream."

He sat up more fully, drawing his knees toward his chest like he needed to make himself smaller. "It's stupid."

"Try me."

"I keep dreaming about the injury. Except in the dream, I can't skate afterward. I can't even walk. Everyone's watching while I try, and... nothing works right."

I heard the bald fear in his admission.

"That's not stupid," I said. "That's normal."

"Is it? You ever have dreams like that?"

For a moment, I considered lying, but the truth came out instead. "All the time. I had one where I showed up to a game and couldn't remember how to put on my equipment. Just stood there while everyone watched."

"What did you do?"

"In the dream? Panicked. In real life? I reminded myself it's only brain garbage. Our minds are assholes sometimes."

A small, surprised laugh escaped him. "That's... oddly comforting."

"Happy to provide philosophical wisdom at three in the morning."

We were silent in the darkness for several moments.

"Try to get some sleep," I finally said, "early bus tomorrow."

He nodded, settling back against his pillow. "You, too."

I only slept in fits and starts for the rest of the night. Six seasons in professional hockey had taught me to compartmentalize, to keep my personal life walled off from the team's dynamics. Relationships—romantic or otherwise—introduced complications and created vulnerabilities. I'd seen careers derailed by less.

Most didn't have fairytale endings like Dane and Leo in the season before.

Pike was a complication of unprecedented magnitude. Not only was he a teammate, but he was younger, with an NHL future glittering on his horizon. He was my assigned mentee, for Christ's sake. The professional impropriety alone should have been enough to slam the door on whatever feelings welled up inside me.

Yet there I was, lying awake at four in the morning.

I'd never defined myself by who I was attracted to. In my limited relationship experience—most of it hurried and forgettable—gender had mattered less than connection. However, I'd gravitated primarily toward women simply because it was easier in the hockey world. The idea of seeing Pike THAT way didn't trigger an identity crisis.

What terrified me wasn't that Pike was a man. It was that he was Pike—sunshine personified, talent unbridled, future unlimited. And I was... what? A veteran on his last legs and a grinder with more penalty minutes than goals.

The gap between us yawned like an unbridgeable chasm.

Sleep finally claimed me as the first hints of dawn lightened the edges of the curtains. Mylastconscious thoughtwasofPike,grinningafterscoring a goal,radiantandreckless,turninghis head likehe'dalwaysmeanttoshareitwithme.