Page 6

Chapter six

Pike

I pushed through the double doors of the arena forty minutes before scheduled practice. My knee throbbed in dull protest—not pain exactly, more like a conversation my body insisted on having despite my attempts to ignore it.

I'd learned to translate the dialect: stiffness meant caution, sharp twinges demanded rest, but this steady pulse was manageable. It was a reminder rather than a warning.

I expected to be alone. Instead, I found Carver sliding across the ice in practiced figures, his breath clouding around him. He wasn't performing drills so much as working through movements that looked almost meditative.

I paused at the bench. The usual tension was lacking in his face.

He spotted me and pulled up, spraying ice against the boards. "Early bird gets the fresh ice, or were you hoping to avoid my charming company?"

"Came to work on transitions." I stood and glided toward him. "Didn't expect anyone else to be here."

"Transitions." He raised an eyebrow. "Sure, let's see them."

I launched into the series of crossovers and direction changes I'd been drilling for three days. It felt good—clean and controlled, my knee cooperating through each weight transfer.

Carver observed with arms crossed, his assessment more valuable than I cared to admit. "Your outside edge is still weak on the right side. You're compensating with your upper body."

"No, I'm not."

"Show me again."

I repeated the pattern, intensely aware of my form as I transitioned from inside to outside edge. He was right. I felt it—the subtle shift of my shoulders taking weight that my knee should have handled.

I muttered under my breath. "Damn it."

"It's not bad." He skated closer. "Still, in a game situation, that split-second adjustment gives away your next move."

I challenged him. "Show me your version."

He smirked but obliged, executing the transition sequence with economical grace. His movements weren't flashy, but he executed them with a brutal efficiency that I suddenly envied.

"You make it look effortless."

"Nothing about hockey is effortless when you hit thirty." He rotated his shoulder with a barely perceptible wince. "It's about making the pain worthwhile."

We fell into parallel drills, occasionally offering observations or adjustments. By the time the rest of the team arrived, we had progressed to passing drills—quick exchanges that required minimal communication. Coach nodded approvingly as he skated onto the ice, clipboard in hand.

"Good to see the mentorship paying off. We'll all head to the video room after practice. We're breaking down Providence's forecheck."

The full practice unfolded with its usual controlled chaos—line drills, system work, and conditioning that burned my lungs in the cold air. Throughout, I tracked Carver, aware of his movements even when focusing on my own tasks.

In the video room afterward, we all slouched in padded chairs as Coach dimmed the lights. Footage of our last game with Providence appeared on the screen.

"Their forecheck relies on overloading the strong side." Coach froze a frame. "Pike, you drew the defender here, but the timing was off."

I nodded, recalling the sequence—a broken play where I'd hesitated a fraction too long.

Carver's raised voice cut through the room. "Actually, the timing wasn't the problem."

Coach turned. "Enlighten us, Carver."

"Pike held the puck exactly long enough." Carver leaned forward, gesturing toward the screen. "Look at their defenseman's positioning. If Pike moves earlier, that lane never opens. He manipulated the coverage by being patient."

Coach studied the footage, and then he nodded slowly. "Good eye. Pike, that's the kind of puck protection we need more consistently."

The session continued, but I replayed Carver's comment in my mind. His validation shouldn't have mattered more than Coach's approval or the stats that showed I was one of our leading scorers. Yet, somehow, it did.

As we filed out of the darkened room toward the locker area, my shoulder brushed Carver's—casual contact that happened dozens of times in hockey. This time was different. The brief pressure lingered like a handprint, warm through the fabric of my shirt.

"Nice read, Sunshine." His voice was low enough that only I could hear.

When we returned to the locker room, the team nutritionist had left behind the usual array of recovery options. I reached for a protein shake, then patted my pockets for the energy bar I could have sworn I'd tucked away earlier. Empty. My stomach protested with another audible rumble.

"Forget something?"

I turned to find Carver holding out a wrapped bar—one of the chocolate peanut butter ones that tasted less like cardboard than the others.

"How did you—"

"You burn too hot to skip fuel." He tossed it to me. "Watched you give yours to that new kid when he looked pathetic after sprints."

I hadn't realized anyone had noticed that small exchange with Monroe. He was our newest defenseman, drafted straight from college with a frame still too lean for professional hockey.

"Thanks. I would've grabbed another."

Carver shrugged, already turning away. "Can't have my winger passing out mid-drill. Makes me look bad."

The comment was classic Carver—any kindness immediately undercut with practicality or self-interest—yet something in his tone lacked the usual edge. I watched him walk away, noting how carefully he distributed weight with each step.

That evening, most of the team gathered at The Icehouse. Strings of mismatched Christmas lights gave the room a warm glow year-round, illuminating decades of hockey memorabilia that adorned the walls.

We occupied our usual long table in the back corner, a space unofficially reserved for the Forge. A classic rock playlist competed with two dozen conversations, creating a comfortably chaotic noise.

I sat between Carver and TJ at the center of the table—the top line holding court. TJ was in rare form, animated beyond his usual exuberance.

"So, Pike..." TJ's voice carried throughout the bar, drawing everyone's attention with the tone that signaled incoming mischief. "When's the wedding? I see those dreamy looks you keep tossing at Carver like he's a damn romance novel cover."

My stomach dropped as heat flooded my face. The table erupted in laughter, including Carver beside me. Despite feeling suddenly exposed, I forced myself to laugh along as if TJ had somehow read thoughts I'd barely acknowledged to myself.

"You mean the smolder?" Mercier joined in, leaning forward with exaggerated seriousness. "That slow-burn intensity. Gets me every time."

More laughter. I needed to respond before the silence stretched too long and transformed simple teasing into something uncomfortable. I marshaled my features into an expression of amused indifference.

"Guess I have a type." I carefully calculated my response. "Angry and old."

The table exploded with renewed laughter and a chorus of "Ohhhhh!" Someone slapped the table. Monroe nearly choked on his drink. Even Carver shook his head, the corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been genuine amusement.

"Watch it, Sunshine," he growled. "Old enough to remember all your rookie mistakes."

The conversation mercifully shifted to other targets, but something fundamental had altered. I fixed my gaze on my plate, suddenly aware that I couldn't risk meeting Carver's eyes again—not when TJ's teasing hit so unexpectedly close to a truth I'd been circling.

Only when the evening drew to a close, and my teammates began shifting toward the exit, did I finally permit myself a sidelong glance at Carver. He was listening to something Mercier was saying, profile illuminated by the amber glow of the Christmas lights.

Something caught in my throat. It wasn't mere admiration or respect. Something else made my pulse quicken when our eyes finally met across the table as the evening wound down.

The drive home was too quiet after the noisy camaraderie at The Icehouse. The radio played softly—some late-night DJ's attempt at mellow vibes—but I couldn't focus on the music.

Instead, I replayed moments from the evening in my mind: Carver's rare laugh, the intensity in his eyes when our gazes briefly connected, and the casual brush of his hand against mine when he reached for his drink. They were details I shouldn't have noticed but somehow couldn't forget.

By the time I pulled into my apartment complex's parking lot, my knuckles were white on the steering wheel. I sat there for a moment after killing the engine, watching my breath cloud in the rapidly cooling air.

Get it together. I pushed open the car door and stepped into the night.

In my apartment, I dropped my keys on the counter, where they skidded across the surface before coming to rest against yesterday's coffee mug. The clock on the microwave displayed 11:37—not particularly late by usual standards, but enough to make my body protest after the day's exertion.

I should have gone straight to bed. Instead, I collapsed onto my couch, one arm flung over my eyes as TJ's words echoed in my head. Those dreamy looks you keep tossing at Carver. Had I been that transparent? Or was that TJ's default setting—finding opportunities for teasing without actual observation behind it?

My laptop sat on the coffee table, still open from the searches I'd done while wolfing down breakfast. I reached for it without fully deciding why.

Our team's internal video system was accessible from home, with a library of game footage available for players who were obsessive enough to study during off-hours. I typed in my credentials and navigated to our most recent games.

"This is stupid," I muttered, even as I clicked through to find specific sequences.

I found our power play against Springfield last week. After scrolling to the timestamp I remembered, I hit play. The footage showed our set formation with Carver positioned near the right boards as the puck cycled through our rotation. A Springfield defender lunged toward him, trying to break up our play.

What happened next was pure hockey instinct. Carver absorbed the contact, using his entire body to shield the puck while maintaining possession.

He didn't appear flashy or elegant; he was immovable, a force that refused to yield despite the pressure. Then, without looking, he slid a perfect backhand pass directly to my stick, where I waited in the slot.

I paused the video on the frame where the puck connected with my blade. My expression on the screen was focused, and I was already calculating the shot.

Next, I rewound the tape to watch Carver's movement again—the strength in his stance and precision in his pass.

I played it twice more, studying the sequence with an intensity that went beyond professional analysis. When I caught myself about to replay it a fourth time, I shut the laptop abruptly and pushed it away.

"What are you doing?" The room didn't respond. I only heard the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing on the street below.

I no longer looked at Carver how teammates were supposed to look at each other. Somehow, he'd begun to occupy more space in my thoughts than made sense.

I pushed myself off the couch, shedding clothes as I headed toward the bedroom. A hot shower did nothing to quiet my mind, which continued to cycle through moments in the day. Sleep claimed me eventually, but my subconscious refused to grant peace.

My dream began on familiar ice, but it was a transformed arena. The ceiling had vanished, exposing a night sky where pucks rather than stars traced silver trajectories. I was alone with Carver, working through the transition drill from that morning, but the boards had disappeared—the ice extended endlessly in all directions.

As I positioned myself to repeat the drill, Carver stepped behind me, his hands firm on my waist. "Weight on the outside edge," he instructed, his voice low near my ear. "You're still favoring the knee."

The arena scoreboard flickered to life overhead, displaying numbers that kept changing—my stats, age, and time remaining in the season. I tried to focus on the drill instead.

I adjusted my stance as directed, fully aware of his proximity. His hands remained steady, guiding my movement as we glided together in perfect synch.

"Better," he murmured, and the approval sent a shiver through me.

Withoutmakingaconsciousdecision,Iturned.CarverwascloserthanIexpected—tooclose.Closeenoughthathisbreathgrazedmycheek,hotagainstthechillofthe rink. Behind him, the penalty box had transformed into something that resembled a bed, red-lit like a sin bin but unmistakably intimate.

I froze. Not from fear exactly, but from confusion, maybe awe. Something unspoken passed between us, as real as any puck drop and just as irreversible.

Hishandsstillrestedonmywaist,andwhenIdidn'tstepback,hedidn'teither.Myheartpounded.Itoldmyselftomove—tosaysomething,tomakeajoke—butIjust stoodthere.

AndthenIdidwhat I never imagined:Ileanedin.Hesitantly.Barely moving. Barely enough for my lips to brush his.

It was awkward. Clumsy. There was too much pressure at first, and I pulled back immediately, mortified—only to find his eyes still on me. Steady. Unshaken. Maybe even a little… amused? The scoreboard above us suddenly displayed 37 + 12, our jersey numbers, with a flashing red heart between them.

Then he kissed me—not tentative this time, but firm. Commanding, so unlike Amanda's softness or Kelsey's smooth cheek—this was unexplored terrain, all friction and heat.

And holy hell, it felt—wrong in all the right ways, like something I shouldn't want but couldn't resist.

Igaspedintohismouth,shockedbytheweightofhisbodyashepulledmecloser. My hands fumbled—one gripped the fabric of his hoodie like a lifeline, the other hovered awkwardly near his chest, unsure where to land.

Thestubbleonhisjawwas rough againstmyskin.Ifeltoverwhelmed.Off-balance.Andsodamnalive.

Whenhishandslidbeneathmyjerseyandsettledagainstthebareskinofmyback,Ijoltedawake with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Myentirebodyflushed, face burning, chest tight, and cock hard in the tangle of sheets.

I lay there staring into the dark, every breath sharp and fast, like I'd just sprinted the length of the rink.

I'dneverkissedaman and neverwantedto.Notconsciously.Notuntilnow.

Igroanedintomypillowandwhispered,"Whattheactualfuck."

I ran a hand through my sweat-dampened hair, fingers trembling slightly. My first instinct was to dismiss it—just a dream, meaningless imagery, nothing to analyze.

The same way I'd dismissed that flutter in my chest when Anderson, my college teammate, had hugged me too long after our championship win. The same way I'd ignored how I sometimes found myself watching certain players during NHL highlights with an attention that went beyond studying technique.

"This isn't me," I whispered, but the words sounded hollow even to my ears.

Part of me felt almost angry at Carver—for being Carver, for getting under my skin, for making me question things I'd carefully avoided examining. Another part felt something closer to relief, like finally identifying the source of phantom pain.

I couldn't un-know it now. I couldn't pretend what I felt was only admiration or professional respect. I couldn't file it away as simple friendship.

I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over my text history with Rachel, the girl I'd dated last summer—our relationship had been pleasant but ultimately lukewarm. I'd attributed the lack of spark to poor timing, hockey season looming, and a dozen other external factors. Now, I wondered if there had been another explanation all along.

The realization felt like stepping onto thin ice—that momentary vertigo when you hear the first creak underfoot but keep moving anyway.

It was attraction—visceral, complicated, and profoundly inconvenient. Attraction to a teammate, my mentor, someone who represented everything stable about my hockey identity while simultaneously threatening to upend it.

I sat up, suddenly restless, and moved to the window. Hockey had been my constant, my framework for understanding myself. Every decision I'd made since I was nine had been filtered through a single question: Will this help or hurt my career?

I'd built my identity around the game's expectations—be tough but not brutal, confident but not arrogant, close to your teammates but not too close.

And where exactly did wanting to kiss your grumpy veteran mentor fit into that framework?

Part of me—the part raised on hockey culture and locker room codes—recoiled from the thought. But another part, a quieter voice gaining strength, wondered if this feeling was worth facing down that fear. After all, Dane and Leo found each other last season.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass, thoughts pinballing between extremes. One moment, I planned to maintain strict professional distance; the next, I imagined what might happen if I simply acted on this feeling.

Pride and shame, excitement and dread, recognition and denial—all coursed through me simultaneously, none winning out.

"What am I doing?" I whispered to the empty room.

The silence offered no answers. Only the distant hum of my refrigerator and the sound of my uneven breathing—the soundtrack to a realization that couldn't be unlearned.